


Long Lost

by below_the_starry_clusters_bright



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, I laugh in the face of established timelines, Reincarnation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 68,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/below_the_starry_clusters_bright/pseuds/below_the_starry_clusters_bright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woman who will become Jane Foster draws the attention of the princes of Asgard. Trapped in a cycle of reincarnation, her lifetimes are defined by competition, jealousy and devotion, until Thor falls to Midgard, Loki falls from grace, and each brother is in desperate need of an anchor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy, where to start with all the taken liberties. Alright, I'm ignoring the date given in the first Thor movie and setting Loki's birth a few centuries before. He's already proficient in magic, although by no means an expert. Jane will be known by different names for the first few chapters, but rest assured she is the plucky astrophysicist we know and love. This chapter and the next (potentially next two) act as a prologue of sorts which ought to be read together, but I forgot how to not make a first chapter nine thousand words long, so they're split. The next chapter will be along tomorrow. This is a multi-chapter fic, no word on the updating schedule but I'll do what I can. Enjoy!

* * *

                                                        “Gods don’t like. They love and they hate and they ignore.” - Neil Gaiman

* * *

 

 In the Allfather's latest attempt to drill responsibility into his young sons, he had tasked them with the protection of one Midgardian town each. Thor, barely three hundred and firmly in the grips of Asgardian adolescence, had taken to the task with relish. Loki, several years younger yet feeling centuries ahead of his elder brother in mental maturity, accepted the burden with a silent nod of his head.

 With the help of their mother’s magic, the princes became attuned to the prayers of their respective townspeople. Lok’s jest that it was the closest Thor would ever come to an actual thought earned him an impressive bruise, the pain of which he hid behind a grin. Needling Thor was likely the only enjoyment he would get from the learning exercise and he intended to double his usual efforts.

 Although Loki certainly did not mind the idea of others paying him tribute, he would have preferred to serve as patron to one of Midgard’s vast empires. An inconsequential group of dwellings in the frozen tundra of the north was beneath his attention. Of course, he could have been granted the entire Nine Realms and still Thor would have proclaimed his town superior.

 “Look at how they feast!” the God of Thunder said months into the task, grinning down into the swirl of magic Loki had created to give them a glimpse of their mortals. “They have already made a valiant dent into the casks of ale I provided. It’s as though they are of Asgard itself. Their warriors will one day make fine additions to Valhalla!”

 While Thor had done little more than encourage his mortal pets into debauchery, Loki attempted to enrich his townspeople’s lives in a way that might actually matter. Over the years he shielded them from the harshest winter storms and ensured their livestock would survive regardless of the climate. When food was scarce, he engineered several lost travellers with more supplies than they needed to stumble upon the town. He should have perhaps anticipated the slaughter that would follow – sharing was always the first value to be lost when infants sat hollow-cheeked and wailing – but he barely lifted an eyebrow when surveying the aftermath of the carnage. The travellers should have found their own god to protect them.

 If the Allfather had intended his task to teach humility, he had been mistaken. Both Loki and Thor left indications of precisely whom the villagers should give praise to upon receiving an act of charity. Thor left crude engravings of the hammer that would one day be his to wield, while Loki carved the horned helmet that marked him out as a prince of Asgard and son of Odin into trees. The mortals did not need to know that the helmet still slipped down to cover his eyes; he would one day grow into it, and then he would make a fearsome sight indeed.

 Still, the brothers’ enthusiasm eventually waned. Once they had fallen from his favour, Thor treated the villagers like unwanted pets. Loki, pulling on vestiges of honour he was surprised to find he possessed, gave his people a cursory glance every decade or so. His most recent look revealed that illness had wiped out over half of the already small populace. The realisation irked him. Odin had long since moved on to other forms of teaching, but Loki still felt echoes of determination to see the tiny mortals flourish. Flourish more than Thor’s tiny mortals, that was.

*

950 AD

*

 With a determination which lingers a century and a half after the task was set, Loki visits his mother’s chambers and asks her to renew her magic to give him a connection to the Midgardians once again. In truth, it’s a magic he could have accomplished himself, but he wants to be seen and acknowledged for performing one last altruistic act. Frigga arches an eyebrow, letting her youngest son know that she sees straight through him, but grants his request nonetheless.

 Less than three days later, the latent pull of a mortal in prayer sends Loki riding down to the Bifrost. A ban restricting the princes from using the bridge has recently been lifted (Loki reminds himself to once again thank Thor for the ill-planned trip to Muspelheim which ended in battle) and Loki relishes the fact that Heimdall has no reason to deny him access. The guardian and the youngest prince have a deep, almost instinctual dislike of one another, although Heimdall is too stoic and Loki is too careful for either of them to outwardly reveal it.

 “The town in Midgard requires my presence,” Loki informs the god once he reaches the Observatory. He comes to an expectant halt on the bridge, the polite smile on his lips reminding Heimdall that it’s a matter of when, not if, Loki’s request will be obeyed.

 “The town in Midgard has required your presence for many years now,” Heimdall says. There is no inflection in his tone to mark an accusation but Loki bristles regardless. He doubts Thor would receive the same non-judgemental judgement that the guardian excels in.

 “I doubt a day goes by when Midgard would not benefit from Asgard’s assistance,” Loki says, standing straighter under the imagined scrutiny, “but we are not here to hold mortals’ hands.”

 Heimdall does not speak and does not move aside to allow entry. Loki takes a moment to gather his fortitude together. Heimdall’s stature intimidates him – although he will never admit it – but Loki has found pathways out of Asgard that Heimdall cannot control. The young prince holds the secret knowledge close to his chest as a reminder that even omniscience has its blind spots.

 “To Midgard, Heimdall, if you please.”

 Heimdall nods, unable to deny such a pointed command. He offers his usual words of advice as they enter the Observatory, as though Loki has not travelled through the Bifrost a hundred times or more, and then activates the portal in silence. Loki closes his eyes against the whirring and the growing light which strikes out around him. He is no longer nervous about travelling by himself the way he was as a child, but in truth the tightening in his stomach cannot be attributed to excitement alone.

 The journey itself lasts for a handful of seconds and leaves bright colours swimming behind Loki’s eyes. He blinks away the afterimages until the forest clearing he has landed in focuses into view. The trees are taller and thicker than he remembers but the atmosphere is the same. Snow intercepts the gloom in small falling flakes and clings to the pine-strewn ground. His surcoat brushes against them as he makes his way to where he can still feel the presence of prayer. The cold, with its sharp, fresh scent, barely touches him.

  _Still,_ _it’s colder than this on Jotunheim,_ Loki thinks to himself as he reaches the edge of the forest. _I mustn’t get complacent about the chill if I am to fight Frost Giants_.

 A low murmuring breaks him from his thoughts. The recipient of his generosity stands feet away from him, the small fire burning at her feet casting her form into alternating shadows and flickers of light. Despite the thickness of her coat, her slight frame shivers in the freezing midwinter night air. Her hands are freshly burned to such an extent that Loki imagines he would be able to see their severity even without his assisted godly vision. He cannot gauge a mortal’s age by its appearance, but he understands that the girl in front of him has barely broken the cusp of womanhood.

 She carves out a pathetic figure and Loki wonders if it is not too late to turn back. This girl will not have the type of problem which will make him a hero upon solving it. He should have asked his mother to create a bond which would allow him to hear the specifics of a prayer rather than just a general call for help. He debates calling for Heimdall, and even glances back into the trees behind him, but he fears that asking to come home will create implications of not being powerful enough to help even a mortal. Besides, if the girl has any sense at all then she would have likely noticed the inter-dimensional burst of energy that slammed into the ground just minutes ago. It’s somewhat difficult to miss.

 Loki shrugs to himself and steps through the final line of trees without bothering with stealth. His movements rustle in the night air and the girl’s head snaps up at the sound of them. She stares at him, appearing in her wide-eyed wonder every inch the child Loki assumes her to be. She swallows audibly but does not step back.

 “Are you…am I in the presence of Loki?”

 Loki inclines his head. He doubts he will ever stop enjoying the mixture of fear and awe on mortals’ expressions once they realise who he is. He will grow to be compelling and intimidating, but for now it is his armour that lends him his otherworldly air. The girl, doing her best to hide her nerves behind a show of confidence, pulls her shawl tighter around her drawn-back shoulders. She winces as the burns on her fingers jostle the woolly material.

 “I seek your help,” she informs him. At a tightening in Loki’s jaw, she hastily adds, “If it pleases you. My grandfather said you were patron to this town when his father was a child, and I pray that you extend your generosity to me.”

 Generosity is an overstatement given his complete lack of regard for any of them, but Loki will see what she wants before correcting her. Her eyes slide away from his, and he waits in silence for her to continue. The words, when they come, are spoken so softly that the night air almost steals them away.

 “I am to be wed in the morning.”

 Loki feels an immediate pang of disappointment. Nervous brides-to-be are neither a rarity nor a challenge. He has answered a worthless prayer. Given the time and effort expended, he really ought to punish the girl, but he is feeling benevolent. Let his wasted time serve as penance for his absence during whatever sickness had culled the townspeople.

 “To a man you do not love,” Loki finishes for her, already turning to walk back into the forest. Perhaps there is still sport to be had somewhere on this dingy planet. “He will provide for you, you will bear his children, love will grow. These things take time. They are not matters for the gods to concern themselves with.”

 “He stifles me.”

 The quiet rage in her voice gives Loki pause. She either forgets who she is speaking to or is desperate enough not to care. Loki has little time for the ignorant, but he always finds a source of intrigue in the desperate. He does not turn around but nor does he step further towards the trees. The girl, bolstered by this, continues to speak.

 “I wish to chart the stars, but he forbids me from it. He caught me near the edges of the town tonight and burned all the attempts I have made so far.”

 Loki thinks back on her blistering fingers with new interest. “A wife should be subservient to her husband,” he says, testing the phrase that many speak yet none seem to obey. His mother defers to his father in their respective roles as Queen and King, but the idea of Frigga as a quiet and meek wife is laughable. Moreover, he cannot imagine himself or Thor choosing to spend eternity with a woman who would bow her head in submission at every syllable her husband speaks.

 “I am not yet a wife,” the girl says, distaste sharpening her tone, “and nor do I intend to be. I can be of much more value as a stargazer.”

 Loki turns around with a challenge disguised as a smile. “How would you know, if you are not yet a wife? Perhaps you would find it to be your true calling.”

 She does not have a reply. Her lips are a thin line which knit together her stubborn expression. Loki stands tall against the backdrop of the forest, thinking to himself that he can wait all night in the falling snow and the chill which has almost certainly already begun to infect the girl. After a minute of silence, the girl realises that Loki will not speak to either offer hope or take it away. Her features soften.

 “Last week, a girl from the town died birthing a child,” she says. The flames beneath her flicker as she stares into them. “Her name was Dalla, and she was my age.”

 Comprehension hits Loki. He should have understood before now, but the thing which truly troubles the girl is not for a nigh-immortal being to understand. “You fear death.”

 The girl’s eyes lift to his. “I fear a life unlived,” she corrects. “The survival of a mother and her babe depends on nothing more than luck and the will of the gods. I would not leave my life to chance.” She lowers her head in a jerky motion, as though she is unused to bowing it. “I ask you for the gift of certainty.”

 It’s a terrible thing to ask for, in Loki’s opinion. Her phrasing is far too open for interpretation; Loki could ensure that she never wed by killing her where she stood, and then he would travel back to Asgard knowing that he had kept to his word. It’s the type of ambiguity that he would usually exploit with delight. As it happens, he is here to assist and not condemn.

 “That is not a gift I bestow lightly,” he says.

 “I would not ask, but for the knowledge that you and your greatness are my final hope.”

 There is an awkward slant to the girl’s tone, as though she hears exactly how flimsy her attempts at flattery are but must persevere with them nonetheless. A brief smile glances Loki’s lips. The girl is no poet. It’s the force of her words rather than their beauty that endears her to him. Her cause is hardly the worthiest one he could have attended to, but it would be a shame to leave her to the mud-dwellers when she wishes to lounge amongst the stars.

 “What is it, exactly, that you ask of me?” he asks. In her prolonged pause, Loki grows impatient. “Shall I kill your betrothed for you?”

 “No!” Her eyes are wide with horror. “I would not wish death upon him, or anyone.”

 “Even if it meant your freedom?”

 The girl hesitates for a split second, just long enough for Loki to recognise that she has a self-serving side beneath her righteousness. He wonders when mortals had grown to be so complex.

 “I will not buy my freedom with another’s blood,” she says finally, lifting her chin even as it quivers. She must imagine this act of defiance to be her last, but Loki has no such plans for her. He waits until her surge of heroism has faded and she has retreated back to her uncertain stature. “I ask that you create a sanctuary for me. A home, perhaps in the forest, where none will place their expectations upon me and I can live as I choose.”

 She is bold to outline her wishes to a god in a tone which suggests she knows her request will be fulfilled. Were she not so visibly frightened, Loki would take a cue from the gods of old and smite her. As it is, he holds her fate in his hands and enjoys the weight of the power it brings. This mortal is inconsequential to him, but to her, he is everything.

 “The townspeople will shun you,” he warns, as though his mind is not already made up.

 The girl shrugs. “I do not mind being alone. If it grants me my independence, I will never set eyes on another for as long as I live.”

 “What of your family?”

 Her gaze drops to the snow gathering around his boots. “They are already gone.”

 Taken by the illness, Loki supposes. He should probably feel guilt over that, and then feel added guilt that it does not faze him at all, but he remains thoroughly untroubled. Mortals live and mortals die. Until one of them achieves something significant, their short lifespan will remain their defining characteristic.

 He take a step towards her, mimicking the predatory gait of the hunters he has watched on trips taken with his father and Thor. He does not yet possess the intimidating presence he wishes to project, but he can at least remind the mortal of his status as a higher power. She does not shrink back, much to the annoyance he refuses to show. A smile curls at his lips.

 “Have you not heard the tales of little girls who make deals with gods? We are not altruistic beings.”

 He moves ever closer to her, cutting through the snow with carefully measured steps and never taking his eyes from hers. Faint warmth from the fire tickles the tips of his fingers as he comes to a stop in front of her. She stiffens but still does not move away.

 “I have heard the tales,” she says, tilting her neck to look up at him. False bravado and fear fight a war across her features. “I am no little girl.”

 That’s a matter of opinion, although Loki will not tell her such. He pauses as he considers ways to fulfil her request and then gives a slow, contemplative nod. “You shall have your isolated home. I will make it clear to the townspeople that you are not to be approached unless you will it, and under no circumstances are you to be harmed. In return, I ask two things of you.”

 The girl nods, affecting bravery. Loki considers teasing her with outrageous stipulations just to test the strength of her determination. Then his eyes stray to her burned fingers and he realises that proof lies in front of him. Foolish girl, her fingers will freeze in these temperatures. She will have quite the time trying to document her findings when her hands have been amputated.  
  
 “Give me your hands,” Loki says, reaching out his own before he can question his decision.

 The girl complies even as a frown ripples across her face. Loki’s healing magic is adequate, enough to provide temporary relief for any injuries he or his companions might sustain while out hunting, but it pales in comparison to the magic he can utilise for mischief. Still, the green glow of his power eases the burns and creeping frostbite until all threat of injury is removed. Pleased with himself, Loki loosens his grip. The girl stares down at her hands. Loki watches a thousand thoughts flit through her eyes before she settles on one in particular.

 “Was that one of your requests?” she asks, confused.

 Loki purses his lips. “I ask _three_ things of you,” he amends, and then straightens into an authoritative stance. “There may be times I require shelter. Do not turn me away.”

 He has safe houses in many other locations, but it could never hurt to have one more. He is confident that those who would wish him harm would never think he would stoop to lying low in Midgard. The girl nods her consent.

 “And?”

 “Your name.”

 She had been expecting something more difficult, Loki could tell. Despite his reputation as a trickster, he cannot help but wonder why. There is nothing she could give him which would be of any use, and he will not take anything from her by force or pressure. His sense of honour is an incredibly flexible thing but he adheres to his mother’s teachings of the basic respect for women.

 “Are these terms acceptable?”

 His question is on the lighter side of mockery. She has little choice, and they both know it.

 “They are.” Caution clouds the blue of her eyes, untouched by the wavering smile she attempts. “My name is Åsa Arvidsdottir.”

 “Åsa.” Loki tries the name out on his tongue and decides it is fitting enough. “Lead me to your home, Åsa.”

*

 Loki has every intention of fulfilling his promise of a solitudinous space for Åsa, although he sees no need to go to the effort of creating a new home entirely from scratch. His plan involves the simple matter of removing her dwelling – for when Loki sees it, he realises it truly cannot be called anything else; stalls in the stables of Asgard are roomier – and then depositing it in another place. Loki has never before attempted to fit something so large into the pocket dimensions he uses as a place to hoard his secrets, but he does not voice his doubts over his capabilities. He stands in the snowy town, an uncomfortable Åsa at his side, and glares at her home in hopes that his irritation will hide his misgivings. In the end, after a single minute of fervent concentration, the pocket becomes home to the shack – in addition to the jewel from Nidavellir which Loki keeps meaning to give to his mother, the apple he had stolen from Idunn’s gardens just to test her security, and the sword Thor had “lost” three months ago.

 “How did you do that?” Åsa breathes, her wide eyes fixed on the empty space before her. “Where did it go? Are my belongings still in there?”

 Loki only smiles. It’s a novelty to find someone who doesn’t react to his magic with thin-lipped distaste. Victory thrums through his sudden weariness (though he does not know it yet, the effort he just expended will lead to a week of bed rest when he returns to Asgard) and he turns on his heel and strides away before he succumbs to the sleep he can feel edging in. Åsa scrambles after him, keeping up a steady stream of questions and theories which Loki does not listen to. Her mouth does not close until they reach the Bifrost site deep in the forest, at which point Loki is convinced that he has done Åsa’s betrothed a favour by preventing their marriage. He will count that as another good deed.

 They stop on the edges of the Bifrost’s mark. While snow still falls around them, it does not land on the moonlit etched earth. It isn’t just the elements that avoid the mystical engraving; the first time the Bifrost blasted down on this spot, it decimated every tree in the area. Nothing has grown back since.

 “You may want to stand back,” Loki tells Åsa. Accidentally crushing the girl with her own home would be rather counter-productive.

 She does not reply, her eyes too busy flicking over the area in front of her as though he could memorise every intricate detail. Only when Loki moves to the edge of the clearing does she move too, stepping back in a daze. In the time it takes to blink, Loki has pulled her dwelling from the pocket dimension and, with a sharp sideways motion, settled it down onto the Bifrost landing site. He would have to remind Heimdall to create a new destination should he choose to visit this town again.

 Åsa stares open-mouthed. Loki tries not to feel too proud about having potentially broken her brain. She turns to him in silent questioning, and Loki, benevolent god that he is, grants her permission to enter her home. As she disappears into the wooden structure, Loki remains outside and creates a perimeter within which Åsa will be safe from whatever creatures are foolish enough to dwell in the north of Midgard. The forest is ancient and imbued with a power which he weaves into his own magic. Added to the residual magic left by the Bifrost, Loki is confident that Åsa will be safe. Still, he must make his demands clear.

 “Remain here,” he instructs through Åsa’s open door.

 He does not wait for a reply before transporting himself into the middle of her town. With everything covered by a layer of snow, it’s easy to believe that any inhabitants have long since fled. The dwellings are dark and sturdy, built for practicality rather than beauty. Loki eyes their outlines with the utmost distaste. On Asgard, even the poorest regions can boast of the dazzling grace of their architecture.

 He shakes his head. Asgard’s superiority is irrelevant for the moment. His eyes flick from building to building but he registers no sign of movement within them. The townspeople are asleep. Fortunately, Loki, brother of Thor, knows how to create a scene.

 He smiles, and with a simple gesture the town is set ablaze.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos!

 With a simple whistle, amplified to be shrill enough to wake the sleeping mortals and alert them to their predicament, Loki stands amid the flames which crawl up the side of every shack – illusory, of course, although he supposes killing everyone in the town would be another way of ensuring Åsa’s privacy – and waits for the first screams to begin. He does not have to wait long. Panic has a delightful way of stripping away logic. As they flee their homes with children and possessions bundled in their arms, the mortals do not realise that the flames emit no smoke or heat. Loki imagines he will be able to strengthen his illusions in time to present credible dangers, but for now they perform their task. Frightened cries fill the night. Men shout, women fret, children scream.

 Loki closes his eyes and revels in the chaos with a soft smile upon his face. He is reverential of mayhem, be it on Asgard, Midgard or any other realm. Mortal’s capacity for panic is the one thing Loki admires them for. They get so terribly wound up when they believe themselves to be in danger.  
 In the mass confusion, he can sense a cautious crowd drawing in around him.

 “Speak, stranger!”

 Loki opens his eyes. The flames vanish and leave everything unmarred. A frightened gasp runs through the crowd. Many of them stumble backwards, shielding their children from his view. It might be perceived as an insult that they think him capable of harming children, although as he has just set their town on fire, Loki will forgive it.

 “I am Loki, of Asgard.” He waits for a moment for the name to register with the townspeople, and resists a smile as the crowd ripples with murmurs. They stare at him, their faces blank with fear. “There is one among your number named Åsa Arvidsdottir. She is now under my protection and no longer your concern. You will not approach her unless she approaches you first. She will be free to trade and converse as she pleases, and she will encounter no hostility.”

 The echo of his final syllable has long since faded into the cold air when a man steps forward, trembling in his nightclothes. Loki knows who he is before he opens his mouth; there can only be one who would try and lay claim to Åsa. Some would call it bravery to challenge a god, but Loki is well acquainted with the difference between bravery and stupidity. It’s the only thing Thor has successfully taught him.

 “Please, my Lord,” the man says, keeping eyes fixed on Loki’s boots. “Åsa is my betrothed.”

 “No.”

 The simple word in its cold implicitness is all it takes for the man to fall back in among the crowd. Loki had expected to be questioned, as his commands so often are on Asgard, but he has forgotten that he does not have to fight for equality here. Here, he is superior in every conceivable aspect. Mightiness flushes through him, and reason tells him he should conclude his commands before he can give into the urge to set something else on fire.

 “I am not a merciful god,” he says. None dare meet his eyes. He feels another surge of power. “Disobey me at your peril.”

 An unprompted wave of, “Yes, my Lord,” washes over him. “Yes, your Highness,” would have been more appropriate, but Loki is not here to give lectures on the political structure of Asgard. That the mortals understand he is greater than they are is enough, for now.

 “Return to your homes. No further harm will come to you.”

 It isn’t a promise he is inclined to actively work at keeping, but the townspeople do not need to know this. They shuffle away, afraid and confused, until every door of every shack is closed once more. Only the stars are witness to the grin on Loki’s face.

*

 “It is done,” Loki announces as he appears back outside Åsa’s home. The light of a small fire casts everything into a warm glow. Loki can see the Bifrost’s mark curling out from beneath the edges of her shack. He should have returned to Asgard by now and left Åsa with the impression of a mysterious, all-powerful deity, but he is almost giddy with the night’s successes. He wants to prolong the thrill of fear-induced respect, a sensation so rarely felt on Asgard.

 Åsa appears in the doorway of her home. Relief radiates from her slender form at the sight of him.

 “Will that be all?” Loki asks, expecting her to fall to her knees and thank him breathlessly. Perhaps there would be weeping involved. His lips fall from their smirk as Åsa shuffles in front of him. “There is _more_?”

 “No,” she says quickly. “I – I cannot thank you enough for the generosity you have shown me.”

 Loki should heed her false platitudes, but finds he cannot ignore the poorly told lie. He finds himself slipping back into the familiar desire to prove himself. Whatever her request is, he can fulfil it.

 “Only…” he prompts with a wave of his hand.

 “Only,” Åsa echoes sheepishly, “I wonder if, should you need shelter and come to me, you would share your knowledge of the stars.”

 Loki blinks. He has the capabilities to bend entire dimensions to his will – as far as Åsa is concerned, at least – and yet she asks him for the simple gift of knowledge. How is it that she values such intangible concepts as freedom and understanding when others in her position have begged for gold and jewels? Perhaps she realises that the contents of Loki’s mind are far more precious than the contents of a vault.

 Loki nods once in reply. There is no guarantee he will ever return to Åsa’s town and so it is a promise he can only half-commit to. The smile he receives in return is a thing of pure joy, bright enough for Loki to consider further actions driven by something other than selfishness. _Midgardians are so easily impressed,_ he thinks with an odd indulgence. _They are like children in that regard._

 Åsa thanks him once again, too lost in her own enthusiasm to remember propriety or fear. The power has not shifted, and yet Loki feels somehow less mighty than before. It takes him a moment to understand why. Power can be derived from both gratitude and fear, but he knows from experience that gratitude is fleeting. The same warriors who could one day thank him for shielding them in battle would ridicule him for his use of magic less than two days later. Loki thinks of Thor and the wonder he already inspires. There are few outside of Thor’s group of friends who would dare mock the elder prince, even good-naturedly.

 Loki brings himself out of his dark thoughts. He has achieved a victory here this night and he will not allow himself to ruin it with contemplation. He will return home straight away so that he might bask in his parents’ pride all the sooner.

 “Rest well, Åsa Arvidsdottir,” he says, and does not wait for a reply before stepping back into the fabric of the universe. It transports him into a copse of trees, mere feet away from where Åsa stands. It does not bother him; he is weary from the night’s use of magic, and his disappearance was done for effect rather than long-distance transference. He smiles to himself at the look on Åsa’s face – _how overawed she is by everything!_ – and walks away in silence. The distance he puts between himself and Åsa’s shack is hopefully enough to avoid the Bifrost smashing it to pieces.

 (He would count the evening’s events as an act of altruism even still.)

 Tired but proud, he calls forth Heimdall to take him home.

*

 It’s little more than three years before Loki’s thoughts drift back to Midgard. He is given to understand that the north of the world is colder than the rest of the planet – meaning, presumably, that the south contains the warmest regions – and it must be getting to the time of the heaviest snowfalls for Åsa’s town. One of Midgard’s virtues, possibly its only virtue, is the extremities of its seasons. The tiny planet hoards all of the climates that the rest of the realms have distributed evenly amongst themselves, and shoves them into a rotation lasting just twelve months. Jotunheim’s freezing summer is barely distinguishable from its subfreezing winter, Muspelheim is always unbearably hot, Niflheim is misty and damp, yet Midgard is all of these things and more depending on when and where it is visited.  
  
 Loki tells himself that he should return and ensure that Åsa has been left to her solitude. It would not do for her, or the townspeople, to doubt his divinity. The act had not impressed anyone on Asgard to the extent Loki had wished, and looking back he wonders why he had expected it to. At least the Midgardians had reacted with the appropriate levels of awe. It would only be right to see to it that his command continues to be enforced.

 He twists this thought until he becomes convinced that it is nothing more than his duty as god and prince to return to Midgard. Frigga eyes him with a speculative glint after he announces his intentions but she does not pry. Thor scoffs when he hears of his little brother’s desire to visit Midgard. Odin…well. Loki isn’t certain that Odin even realises his youngest son has left the realm.

 The Bifrost drops Loki in the centre of the forest Åsa calls home. The trees which splintered under the force of the Bifrost’s last visit have been cleared away and, just as with the previous Bifrost site, no snow has fallen on the mark. The world is dim with struggling sunlight which only grows weaker as Loki treks through the forest. He tracks the magical signature of the protective shield he cast around Åsa’s home, pleased that it has held.

 Åsa’s dwelling is even more depressing than Loki remembers. He stands in the clearing and simply looks at it for a moment, wondering how a civilisation could be so stilted as to willingly choose such aesthetics. Smoke chugs out from the roof, reminding Loki of a cold he still does not feel. A lone chair sits on the hard ground in front of the shack. Loki wonders how much time Åsa spends alone outside.

 He infuses the shield with another surge of power, watches the gold and green shimmer fade into the weak sunlight, and then steps forward to knock on Åsa’s door. Something crashes in the shack and the muttered cursing which follows has Loki grinning. The Midgardian’s language is the most colourful thing for miles. He steels his expression into something more appropriate as the door creaks open.

 A sharp intake of breath greets him. Åsa has grown little in the years since Loki last saw her, and the way she almost cowers in the doorway dwarfs her further. She blinks once, twice, a third time, and then regains herself and stands straighter. Loki is not displeased at the effect he has.

 Åsa nods at him in an awkward imitation of respect. “Hello…”

 There is a prolonged pause in which disappointment, embarrassment and anger flood Loki’s mind. Can it be that the mortal doesn’t remember him?

 “Loki,” he reminds her, drawing himself up to his full height. He will rectify not yet having made a suitable impression.

 To his surprise, Åsa gives a nervous laugh. “I know,” she says, her eyes flicking up to his and then away again. “I was just unsure how to address you. I didn’t want to cause offense by failing to use… _Your Godliness_ as a title.”

 Loki’s stance relaxes into something less antagonistic. “Your Godliness?” he repeats, amused.

 Åsa flushes. “I don’t often speak with gods.”

 “Clearly.”

 As Åsa’s cheeks darken, Loki notices how time has sharpened her features in a way that could be attributed to age or hunger. He wonders if forgets to eat when she is lost in her studies, as he so often does. Loki glances into the shack behind her, and sure enough rune-engraved stone slates are piled against one side of the room, interrupted by the occasional piece of wood which must have been used in a pinch. He finds himself curious to know how she interprets the universe.

 “We have a quaint custom on Asgard of inviting guests into our homes,” he tells Åsa. “Perhaps you would consider adopting it?”

 Her hesitation stretches just long enough to offend politeness, but in the end she cannot refuse a god. “I – of course, please, come in.”

 Loki expects her to apologise for the dismal state of her home but she holds her silence, fixing him with a cautious look which follows him around the room. There is not much to see; the spaces where she sleeps, prepares her meals, and relaxes are all contained within several strides. Still, Loki lingers and examines the artefacts of a primitive culture. Åsa makes a muffled noise as he approaches the slates, as though she longs to tell him not to touch anything. Loki understands, having told Thor many times to stay away from his belongings, but he still must fight the urge to run a finger down the pile just to see her reaction.

 “I seem to recall making a promise that I would discuss the stars with you,” he says idly, turning from Åsa’s research. He isn’t sure why he says it, other than to create conversation and avoid returning to Asgard so soon, but he enjoys watching eagerness smooth away the tight worry of Åsa’s expression. That he should find common ground with a mortal is absurd, yet Åsa possesses an enthusiasm about learning that is difficult to find in the halls of the palace.

 Loki speaks about the worlds around them until the sky darkens into night. He recalls what he was taught in his lessons as a child and then speaks with much more fervour about the things he has since discovered for himself. Åsa loses her inhibitions when stars are involved, Loki notices. As the hours pass, she forgets to be polite when interrupting him with questions, and openly scoffs when he says something which does not comply with her understanding. Loki forgets to mind; for the most part, her questions are insightful.

 As they sit in the glow cast from the fireplace, Åsa stifles a yawn. It’s a small motion that nonetheless disappoints Loki. He assumes that Åsa, whose hand must surely be cramping after carving notations in fresh slates of stone for hours on end, will begin to drop hints that she is tired and wishes to sleep. He’s taken aback when she instead jumps to her feet and suggests they watch the stars outside.

 It’s a ceremony oft-repeated in the years that follow. Åsa’s curiosity is a demanding thing, ignorant of social grace or propriety, and Loki wakes up one day to realise that he wishes to visit her miserable shack as often as he can. It’s foolish and invites only pain, but he has somehow become attached to solving the mysteries of the universe with this tiny Midgardian.

 Once the initial awkwardness between them is alleviated, Åsa is blunt in a way that the Ladies of Asgard have had trained out of them. When she is involved in her work, which is often, Loki is lucky to get a single civil sentence from her. Its absorption rather than rudeness that sharpens the edges of her tone; she studies the stars with such intensity and longing that Loki finds himself jealous of them.

 The years grant her a different beauty than Loki is used to, though it captivates him nonetheless. He covets each quirk of her lips when he says something amusing, and has an embarrassing number of ways to describe the way her features soften when she watches the skies. He never allows himself to imagine a future with her, for she will be bones and dust before he knows it, but he will sometimes acknowledge to himself that he holds some form of affection for her.

 They rarely talk of Loki’s life on Asgard. Åsa is under the impression that Loki receives the adoration and respect that a god-prince is entitled to, and Loki would die a thousand times before letting her know that she is the only one to think so highly of him. He snaps at her when she pushes too far, and it’s only by his year-long absence that she realises never to ask again.

 Loki has finally found something that he does not have to share, and he is determined keep it separate from the growing disappointments of Asgard at all costs. As such, it’s with great alarm that one day, eight years since he first met Åsa, he walks into her home to find Thor sitting at the table where she takes her meals.

 “Brother!” Thor greets. He is too large for the small shack, his shining arrogance obvious among the dullness of Åsa’s few possessions and the intellectuality of the slates she still hoards. Loki feels a rush of hatred for him.

 Åsa looks up from pouring out mead for her guest. Her smile is untroubled. “Hello, Loki.”

 Loki nods, unable to form words. His only thought is that he should have extended the protection around Åsa’s home to keep everyone but him away. It’s too late now; his worlds have collided into the unnatural scene before him, and he must work to separate them again as swiftly as possible.

 “Why are you here?” he asks Thor, piecing his composure back together before his brother can realise how affected he is.

 Thor laughs. He is too loud, too _much_ for the place Loki has come to view as a sanctuary. “Did you think your absences had gone unnoticed? I finally asked Heimdall to tell me where it was on Midgard you were going. Of course,” he adds, interrupting Loki’s growing indignation, “had I known your companion to be so lovely, I would have visited long before now.”

 Thor sends Åsa a charming smile and Åsa – clever Åsa, stubborn Åsa, Loki’s Åsa – _giggles_.

 A pit opens in Loki’s stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feedback! It's very much appreciated. As a note, POV will change every few chapters, so I'm afraid Fosterson fans will have to wait until Loki's finished his extensive monologuing to get a better insight into their ship. Build up, darlings, build up. Enjoy!

 Thor insists on accompanying Loki on the next few visits to Midgard. Loki suspects he does it more to annoy than anything, but he cannot deny the request without raising suspicion. There is already a great deal of derision at the rumour that a maiden of Midgard has snagged the attention of an Aesir prince, and Loki will not feed into it by acting like a jealous lover.

 Still, he often shoots his brother dark looks from the corner of Åsa’s shack as Thor usurps all of the attention. To his great annoyance, Åsa adjusts to Thor’s presence far more easily than she adjusted to Loki’s. Loki boots his flagging ego by telling himself that he was a novelty – the first god Åsa ever encountered – while Thor is just another person from Asgard. Yet when he sees how Åsa looks at his older brother, he cannot bring himself to believe his own lies.

 Thor tells Åsa the tales of Asgard which Loki had been so reluctant to mention. Now, he wishes he had seized the chance to paint himself in a favourable light. Many of Thor’s stories revolve around his exploits and, if they mention Loki at all, only cast him in the role of dubious naysayer.

_It’s harmless_ , Thor assures him when Loki voices his objections in private. Loki sees the stories as anything but. His character is questionable enough without added aspersions being thrown onto it, particularly when Thor throws Loki’s deficiencies so sharply into relief.

 Loving the God of Thunder comes naturally to mortals and Aesir alike. It’s something which requires no questioning or thought; everything about Thor, from his bravery to his good cheer, is attractive. For all that Thor’s charisma lacks refinement, it has a magnetic pull about it which promises recklessness and adventure. Many are charmed by the grin which sets alight his expression, and only when they find themselves in the midst of a seemingly inescapable fight do they realise that they perhaps should have thought twice about associating with such a foolhardy boy.

 Loki has resigned himself to it. Of all the times he has had to be quick on his feet and extract himself and Thor from a dangerous situation, the tales only tell of Thor’s victories. The same friends who second-guessed the eldest prince when things looked bleak would swear that they had the utmost faith in him all along. Loki cannot claim to be entirely immune to his brother’s enthusiasm for adventure, but at least he never forgets what Thor truly is.

 He wishes he could show Åsa the consequences of the smile she is so enchanted by. His visits to her are tainted by Thor’s presence, and the few times he manages to see her alone he always wonders if her silences are because her mind is with the brother she truly wishes to spend time with. Loki’s pride demands he abandon Åsa the way her affections have abandoned him, but he is not quite ready to give her up. It’s still her smile he sees when he catches sight of the stars.

 Åsa does him no favours by continuing on as though nothing has changed. During their visits alone, she presents him with her latest theories as a child would present a drawing, and beams at him when he gives them merit. In summertime, she chatters away as she collects berries from the forest, leaving a very bemused Loki to trail behind her with a basket. She talks about the family she lost, the friends she left behind, the townspeople who still fear her. Still, it takes her a while to understand that she is not to mention Thor.

 Loki still prefers to think that he is her only link to the celestial knowledge she craves. It gives him a sense of importance, of the kind of irreplaceability that Thor takes for granted. He is hardly unused to the indignities of being second best and yet – this is only something he will ever admit to himself – he thought that Åsa had perhaps seen something in him worthy of the same adoration that is lavished upon Thor. But he is not instantly loveable. He is not even easily loveable. Loving him takes time and effort, a task to which one must commit themselves fully, and it should come as no surprise that Åsa would not choose to spend her brief life in such pursuits.

 The thought turns into a poison which slowly spreads through his system. One day, without warning Åsa, Loki distances himself from Midgard. He commits to life in Asgard with renewed determination. He spends hours at a time in the palace library, memorising the kind of magic his mother refuses to teach him (and sneaking a glance at theories on granting immortality). Though Åsa is never far from his thoughts, he will not allow himself to return to her.

 His restraint is tested less than six months after his self-imposed exile from Åsa’s life. Thor looks over to him one morning as they relax in the palace gardens and, not realising the casual cruelty of his words, says, “Åsa wonders why you no longer visit her.”

 Loki’s grip tightens around his book. He may have stepped away from Åsa but he is by no means pleased that Thor continues to be a presence in her life. “It’s simpler,” he replies shortly.

 “And since when have you craved simplicity?” Thor laughs, oblivious to his brother’s tension. “Is it because she’s a mortal? That’s hardly her fault. She’ll never dine in our halls but she’s perfectly pleasant to pass the time with.”

 Loki will not ask what Thor means by ‘pass the time with’. He isn’t certain his simmering jealousy could take it. As far as he is concerned, Thor and Åsa sit around and discuss how hilariously mismatched they are and how much better suited she is to Loki.

 “She asks me questions about the universe which I have no idea how to answer,” Thor adds with another laugh.

 “Is that why she desires my company?”

 Thor’s levity fades at Loki’s cool tone. “I would imagine she desires your company because you are friends, are you not?”

 “My obligation to her is fulfilled,” Loki says, focusing back down on the book in his lap. None of the words register. “I have no further need to visit her.”

 “Shall I tell her that?”

 Loki flips over a page. “If you wish.”

 The words at his fingertips twist into a mockery of Åsa’s face when she learns of Loki’s rejection. Loki closes his book and retreats in silence to his chamber.

*

 Åsa has only just entered her third decade of life when Heimdall sends a guard to fetch the princes of Asgard. A quizzical look troubles Thor’s features at this summons, but Loki knows that there is only one reason Heimdall would call for him. Years of absence are forgotten as he urges his horse faster down to the Bifrost, Thor and his steed close at his heels.

 Heimdall’s solemn figure greets them. “The mortal is gravely ill,” he says as Loki and Thor dismount. “She will not last the day.”

 Were he not sick to his stomach, Loki could kill the guardian for delivering the news in such calm tones. As they all take their positions for the journey to Midgard, Loki’s thoughts are in turmoil over his own stubborn refusal to see Åsa for so long. Years have been wasted. He says nothing as the Bifrost deposits him and Thor in Midgard’s early morning light, and before long breath is stolen from him entirely as he tears through the forest. He almost rips Åsa’s door off its hinges in his desperation. Loki hears her ragged gasps before he sees her slumped on the floor. Broken pieces of stone slate surround her, the research having fallen with its creator.

 “Åsa?”

 Her eyelids flutter in response to his voice but the only other movement from her is the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Dread churns Loki’s stomach. He drops to his knees beside her and pulls her head and shoulders into his lap. Whatever is killing her is an insidious foe which leaves no open wounds Loki could heal. He should have demanded that a Healer come with them from Asgard, but it is too late now, he can’t leave her, not while she suffers so, not while she fights for breath. Panic mimics her symptoms in Loki until he must force himself into steady, rhythmic breathing.

 Thor is a stoic figure in the doorway. “She is dying.”

 “Yes, _thank you_ , Thor!”

 Loki lifts the barely conscious Åsa up and carries her to her bed. He focuses on anything other than how limp she feels in his arms.

 “I meant,” Thor says, his sombre eyes fixed on Åsa, “that there is nothing we can do.”

 Loki, furious, rounds on his brother. “You think I should let her die? Do you feel nothing for her?”

 “You know that I do,” Thor says, his voice rising with his temper, “but she is mortal. Her life, and her presence in ours, is fleeting. I have made my peace with it as you never have.”

 “Then you do not care for her as I do.”

 Rather than look at his brother, Loki brushes a lock of fair hair from Åsa’s face. Never has he felt so helpless. He always assumed that he would return to her one day in the future when staying away had become more painful than being in her presence. Loki feels the life he had envisioned for himself slipping away with Åsa’s weakening pulse.

 He runs a hand over his face.

 No.

 No, this will not be how it ends.

 A mad half-plan scrambles into his mind.

 “I took an apple from Idunn’s gardens,” he murmurs to himself as the plan becomes clearer. Details and consequences scroll through his mind and he analyses them almost faster than they appear.

 “Loki, no.”

 Loki had forgotten his brother was there. He stares at him for a moment, considering. He does not need Thor’s permission but things would be much simpler without the oaf trying to intercede. There is an almost hysterical edge to Loki’s tone as he tells Thor, “She doesn’t have to die.”

 He takes a step away from the bed and positions his arms to better reach into the pocket dimension. Thor stops him with heavy hands on his shoulders. Loki curses his brother’s strength as Thor turns him and forces eye contact.

 “She is not meant for magic,” Thor says slowly, trying to press understanding into Loki’s mind. “It could worsen things.”

 “Worsen things?” Loki scoffs. “She is already dying.”

 “This is not for you to meddle in, brother. You must leave it alone.”

 The pity in Thor’s eyes is unbearable. With a snarl, Loki shoves him away. “I will not spend the next four and a half thousand years living with the knowledge that I could have saved her. Leave now if you want no part in it, otherwise be silent and let me work!”

 Thor scowls but does not leave. He is a stifling, disapproving presence as Loki brings forth Idunn’s golden apple. It nestles into his palm, looking so out of place in this mortal world that Loki hesitates. Thor could be right. A mortal has never eaten Idunn’s apples before and no one knows if it would even be effective. Loki thinks back on his brief forays into the art of bestowing immortality. The tales had almost always been a warning against failing to clarify desires. The mortal who asked for immortal life would invariably forget to also request eternal youth, and thus be forced to live out their days as sentient dust once their body crumbled with age. 

 Loki glances at Åsa. He would spare her the threat of such horrors just as he would spare her an early death. He grips the apple and entwines his own magic into the ancient power he can feel within the fruit. He lifts it to his lips as though he would take a bite and whispers, “She who eats this apple will be granted the lifespan of an Aesir. She will retain her youth and never age beyond what she is this day.”

 His magic saturates into the fruit, leaving him feeling drained. Loki takes this as a good sign and steps back over to where Åsa lies semi-conscious. Each breath that passes from her lips sounds as though it has fought a battle to escape her possessive lungs. Setting the apple aside, Loki shifts Åsa into a sitting position. Behind him, Thor stirs back into action.

 “Loki –”

 “She only needs one bite,” Loki says, ignoring whatever warning Thor had been about to issue.

 “And if it chokes her?”

 Then she will have been killed by irony. Loki has no intention of letting that happen. He retrieves one of the small blades he always keeps about his person and uses it to cut a sliver from the shining fruit. With as much force as he dares to use, he coaxes it through her lips. Åsa stares at him through bleary, uncertain eyes but she gnashes her teeth when Loki bids her to chew. Loki doubts it is enough.

 “Has she been to the spring this morning?” he asks Thor, all the while keeping a careful eye on Åsa to ensure she does not choke. “Is there water here?”

 A heavy thud and then the sounds of splashing answers his question. A tankard is pressed into Loki’s hands and he quickly tips it against Åsa’s trembling mouth. He lets in what should be enough water to wash down the tiny apple sliver, wondering as he does whether it truly matters if the apple is chewed properly or if it just needs to be in Åsa’s body to take effect. He fervently hopes it’s the latter.

 While he waits to gauge his next move, Loki glances at the tankard in his hand. He narrows his eyes as he realises he recognises it, and then turns around to Thor.

 “Is this from one of Asgard’s taverns?”

 Thor shrugs. “Åsa wanted me to bring her something from Asgard.”

 “And you brought her a more efficient way to get drunk?”

 Thor’s _yes_ , _why?_ is written across his face, although he has more sense than to speak the words. Loki shakes his head. It’s a foolish thing to feel angry about when Åsa’s life hangs in the balance, but Thor’s ongoing lack of respect for Asgard’s resources is a source of frustration. He focuses on his brother’s foolishness for as long as he can, finding a bizarre comfort in the way it takes away his fear for Åsa.

 As he considers his brother’s disrespect, Loki cuts the apple into miniscule pieces and feeds them periodically to Åsa. He would increase her chances of survival by giving her as many chunks as possible. It seems to work; already, her breaths are less urgent and colour has returned to her cheeks. She can even manage to chew and swallow by herself. Cautiously hopeful, Loki perches on the edge of her bed and half-cradles her. He murmurs encouragements and does not relent until she has eaten the last piece of apple.

 The moment Åsa swallows the final slice, vitality courses through her. Idunn’s magic brightens her skin and smoothes out any blemishes. It brings a healthy glow to her newly-filled cheeks and gives her lips a rosy blush. Her hair becomes thicker and akin to silk in the way it falls over Loki’s arm. She has not yet opened her eyes, but Loki grins down at her all the same.

 “Do you see, brother?” he calls, overcome with relief. “I told you that –”

 A rush of breath forces itself from Åsa’s parted lips. Her chest does not rise again. Idunn’s borrowed vivacity leaks its tone from her skin, leaving her paler than before. Death etches itself into every contour of her face.

  _No.  
_

_No, no, no, I did everything right, I did everything!_

 “Åsa.” Loki shakes her, gently at first and then with vigour when she does not respond. Tears prick at his eyes. “ _Åsa_.”

 The small table where Åsa had once taken her meals splinters under the weight of Thor’s fist.

*

 Continents away, a screaming babe is brought into the world. A faint spark of green and gold curls around her tiny fists.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my apologies to the alluded-to Mayan culture. I’m the first to admit that my focus in this fic isn’t on historical accuracy, but if anything is glaringly inaccurate or even unintentionally offensive then please let me know and I can rewrite. Couple more chapters to go until we meet Jane Foster as we know her. There won't be a chapter tomorrow I'm afraid (busy being very English and having afternoon tea) but I should be back on daily updates after that. Thank you very much for your feedback, enjoy the chapter!

 When he looks back, Loki characterises losing Åsa as a turning point in his long life. He had always been acquainted with death, given Asgard’s warrior culture, but never before had he lost someone important to him. Before they return to Asgard following their final farewell to Åsa, Thor rests a hand on Loki’s shoulder.

 “I think it best not to mention this to anyone.”

 Where Loki once would have argued, he now only nods. Asgard and Midgard are separate for a reason, and to try and sway the Aesir around to mourning a mortal is pointless. It would not do for the princes of the Realm Eternal to be seen with bleeding hearts.

 Odin knows of his sons’ actions anyway, of course. Even if Heimdall had not been reporting Loki’s every trip to Midgard, Thor’s every move has always been well-documented. Loki’s only question is why his father had not put a stop to it.

 “It was an important lesson to learn,” the Allfather says, eyeing his youngest son sternly. “Mortals are not our equals. If they choose to worship us, that is their choice, but befriending them is a fool’s errand.”

  _Now you know the pain of loss, you will not make the mistake again_ is what Loki gleans from his father’s words. Odin does not go so far as to punish his sons for their association with a mortal, but he makes it clear that it is not an act ever to be repeated. Although rumours had once circulated about the princes’ involvement with a mortal, Loki does not hear so much as a whisper about it now. It’s as though his time with Åsa was a blank slate which no one but himself remembers.

 Months go by. Thor slips back into his cheerfulness, while isolation worsens Loki’s grief.

 “I still feel her presence,” he admits to his mother during one of her tutorials. He is usually a quick study in whatever magic she has left to teach him, but his distractedness has not gone unnoticed. “It lingers in the back of my mind as it did when she was alive.”

 “Time will heal,” Frigga promises him. Her disapproval of her sons’ choice of companions does not extend to refusing to offer her sympathies. “You gave the mortal a life she could only have dreamed of otherwise. Let that be a comfort.”

 Unsurprisingly, it isn’t. The months turn into years. Loki learns to affect the same memory loss that seems to have afflicted Thor. He does not mention Åsa whatsoever and stops reacting when he hears the word Midgard. He re-joins Thor and Sif and the Warriors Three in their jaunts, and ignores the feeling of displacement whenever he compares being in their company to how he felt around Åsa.

 When he dreams, he dreams of mountains and temples in a land he has never seen before.

*

 For twenty years, Loki tries to drown out the ever-growing nagging sensation in his head. It’s a pull unlike anything he has felt before, as though he is receiving an answer to a signal he had unknowingly broadcasted. It gets stronger and stronger until he doesn’t understand anything except the need to be at its source.

 One morning just after sunrise finds him dismounting his horse outside of the Observatory and striding towards Heimdall with single-minded purpose. Heimdall stands atop his platform, forcing Loki to look up at him. Loki dislikes it – it reminds him of kneeling before his father’s throne to await punishment for one act of mischief too many – but he is in no position to demand equal footing when he is here to ask a favour.

 “I need your assistance,” he says, “and your solemn vow that you will not tell my father of what I ask.”

 Heimdall does not move. “I can vow no such thing, Prince Loki. My loyalty is first and foremost to the Allfather.”

 Loki grits his teeth and weighs his options. If he can finally discover what it is that calls to him, the punishment he will receive for travelling to Midgard will be worth it. He looks to the guardian, calculating.

 “Has access to Midgard been forbidden me?” he asks.

 Heimdall’s eyes, inscrutable as ever, find his. “It has not.”

 “So you can pledge your assistance, if not your silence.”

 Silence, unhelpfully, is all he receives. Loki takes it as affirmation anyway and ploughs ahead. “There is one on Midgard I wish to visit.”

 Heimdall blinks. In another, the shock it denotes would occur in a series of loud gasps. “I know of whom you speak,” he says slowly, “and I respectfully advise against it.”

 Loki frowns. “You know? How do you…” No, that is a foolish question. “Why have you never said anything?”

 “I was uncertain of the extent of your connection.”

 “I don’t understand it myself,” Loki admits. Heimdall is his last choice of confidante, but it feels good to speak of what has been forbidden him. “I hope to ease whatever calls out to me with this visit.”

 “You know what calls out to you.” There is a lengthy pause, in which it becomes evident that Loki does in fact not know. If ever there was a time for Heimdall to frown, this would be it. “You gave your magic to a mortal. Such energy cannot be destroyed, only transferred.”

 “So my magic lives on in another?” Hope springs forth uninvited. “Does…does that mean that _Åsa_ …?”

 Heimdall begins his procedure to open the Bifrost. “Your attempts to save the mortal were without precedent,” he says over the rising noise. “I cannot say what has become of her.”

 Loki stands at the mouth of the Bifrost. Possibilities that some part of Åsa has lived on numb him and electrify him in turn until he cannot trust his feelings. As the Bifrost tugs him forward, he vows to abandon sentiment and rely only on his mind to reveal the truth.

 * 

 The first thing Loki registers is the oppressive heat. It sticks to him immediately, making him question the practicality of mostly-leather attire. Disappointment sinks in a moment later. This is not Åsa’s home. This cannot even be Åsa’s country, for Loki doubts that such drastic differences in climate can be achieved within the same land mass. He chides himself for his sorrow; to think that Åsa still lived was the kind of foolish, childish hope that he had supposedly cast aside just seconds ago.

 Despite the heaviness in his chest, Loki’s lips twitch at the bizarre sight before him. He is in a field comprised of row after row of recently planted cornstalks. A circular perimeter of dead corn surrounds him. The mark of the Bifrost is emblazoned upon each fallen stalk. Loki hardly thinks it matters; for every one he destroyed, it seems as though there a thousand more stretch on beneath the cloudless blue sky. The stalks are plentiful, bright, and barely reach the waist of the young woman who stands in shock fifty feet away.

 Loki recognises her instantly, although he cannot say why. It cannot be her physical features, for she is vastly different than the pale mortals he encountered in the north of Midgard. Her dark eyes gleam with mistrust as she shifts her stance in preparation to run at the first sign of trouble. The sun has tanned her skin several shades darker than Loki’s own, although her hair, brushed away from her sloping forehead, matches his inky shade. Her dress is a loose blue fabric which knots in strategic places. Its colour is bright, bordering on garish, and Loki cannot help but think back on the muted brown of Åsa’s clothing. A glint of silver catches the sunlight, and Loki notices how the woman’s ears are adorned with golden hoops and piercings. He marvels for a moment at the variety in this tiny realm.

 It’s the woman’s energy that is familiar to him. The longer Loki stares at her, the softer the pressure in his mind becomes. He walks towards her one step at a time, raising his hands in what he hopes is a pacifying gesture. He follows the path set out by the parallel cornstalks until he can speak without having to raise his voice.

 The woman has not moved, although every muscle is tense with anticipation. Resting beneath her layers of caution is the same abstract recognition that Loki imagines is evident in his own expression. She does not voice it, just as Loki does not yet voice his.

 “You destroyed my crop,” she says instead with faint disbelief.

 Loki glances back to the Bifrost mark. “Not all of it.”

 The woman’s eyes narrow as she evaluates him. “Are you a demon?”

 “No.”

 “Yet you destroy the food of our gods.”

 Loki holds back a scoff. Of all things to partner with divinity. He adds ‘not being forever associated with corn’ to the list of things he did not know he was grateful for. It’s with more than a touch of amusement that he replies, “I am no demon.”

 “Then what are you?” There is more than a touch of curiosity about her. “You look like you bathed in moonlight for too long. Are you a consort of Ix Chel?”

 Loki’s stung pride overrules the absurdity of the situation. He bristles. “I am no one’s consort.”

 “It was not an insult.” She looks at him strangely, as though she speaks things he should already know by heart. “To be consort to the moon goddess is an honour many would die for.”

 “To be consort to the mood goddess would be a step down for me,” Loki tells her. Indignation flits across her features, but he cuts across her forming words with, “I am Loki, of Asgard.”

 He watches closely for any flicker of recognition. The woman’s face remains blank.

 “What is Asgard?”

 The question is another disappointment that Loki feels idiotic for letting affect him. “There are many different gods contained within this universe,” he says. “Asgard is home to my particular race of divine beings.”

 The woman’s mouth forms a soft _oh_. “You are a god?”

 “A benevolent one,” Loki assures her. “Here only to assuage my curiosity.”

 The woman shifts as though she would bow. It’s an awkward movement, made all the more obvious by the discomfort on her face. As much as Loki does not wish to compareher to Åsa, he automatically sees shades of his lost friend within the gesture.

 “What are you curious about?” she asks.

 Loki lives for such open-ended questions, for in them he finds no restriction in what mischief he is capable of. For now, he will avoid the temptation. He is not here to cause havoc, after all.

 “Your name, for one,” he says, echoing the condition he gave to Åsa on the first night they met. This woman’s face twists in the same confusion.

 “Why?”

 Loki shrugs. “I have told you mine.”

 “My father used to say that names have power,” the woman says. “He said they predicted what we would become.”

 “None of which changes the fact that I gave you my name in good faith.”

 Loki watches the woman struggle with herself for another moment before she gives a somewhat resigned, “I am Citlali.”

 “Citlali translates as harvester of corn?”

 While Loki’s lip curls at his own joke, Citlali is unamused.

 “I am more than that,” she tells him with a hard look in her eyes. Only when Loki indicates that he meant no offence do her features soften. “Besides, my father was not entirely right. I _chart_ the stars, I do not become them.”

 Loki’s mouth goes dry. “You study the stars?”

 “Of course,” Citlali says. The way her eyes light up sends a jolt through Loki. “What else holds beauty and knowledge in equal measure?”

 It has been almost twenty one years since Loki has seen such an expression. Questions pervade his mind before he can brush them away. What he wonders is impossible, of course. Åsa is dead. Loki pushed her burning pyre into the sea himself. Yet between his connection with Citlali and Heimdall’s speculation about the transferal of energies, Loki no longer feels capable of deciding what is possible.

 “How old are you?” he asks. The friendly, conversational tone he was aiming for is marred by intensity. Citlali looks mildly alarmed but Loki does not care if he frightens her. He has to confirm that his theory is nonsense before it drags him into madness.

 “I was born beneath a star which appears every two decades,” Citlali says, watching him warily. “It has been almost a year since I last saw that star.”

 Almost twenty one years. Loki closes his eyes and tries to tell himself that it does not mean anything. It _cannot_ mean anything. Åsa is gone forever, and this echo of her is nothing more than a cruel trick by Heimdall, or the Norns, or even his father deciding to punish his youngest son after all.

 It means nothing.

 But it could have meant everything.

 The thought brings forth a wave of anger that has Loki reaching out to grip Citlali’s arms. His fingers dig into her skin until she gasps. He leans in close enough to see himself reflected in her wide eyes, and holds her fast as she tries to pull away.

 “Why was I brought here?” he demands.

 “I – I don’t –”

 “What spell have you cast to forge a connection in my mind?” When she does not answer, he shakes her. “Tell me!”

 “I haven’t done anything!”

 She kicks at him with all her might. Loki barely feels anything. Some detached part of his mind reminds him that he ought to practice restraint around the mortal so as to avoid accidentally killing her. The thoughts more in tune with his anger whisper that he is strong enough to force a confession.

 He reaches out to the magic he can feel inside her veins. It answers him eagerly, flooding into his consciousness in a rush of images and sensations.

_suffocation panic pain hard wooden floor hitching breaths desperation warm body encircling arms raised voices panic desperation soft bed taste of apple water taste of apple taste of apple taste of apple deep breaths relief exhaustion weightlessness nothing_

 Loki releases Citlali and stumbles back. His chest is tight and his mind is in shambles. He has just enough sense about him to catch Citlali’s arm again as she turns to run, but he ensures his grip is gentler this time. He cannot let her get away.

 “Is it tribute that you want?” she asks. Her voice trembles in anger and fear, and there is fire in her eyes as they arrest him. “I will give you nothing. You are no god of mine.”

 Loki brushes aside her rage in favour of his own confusion. “Did you not just feel what I felt? It was as though I had died.”

 Citlali scowls as she makes another futile attempt to tug her arm away from Loki’s grasp. “I don’t think _you_ were the one in danger of dying.”

 Loki looks down upon this small mortal with the curious concept of self-preservation and lets his thoughts tumble over one another. Citlali’s body has Åsa’s memories locked away inside it, and already Loki knows there are traits the two women share. Is she Åsa reborn, or is she a random vessel into which Åsa’s consciousness has found sanctuary? Is there a difference between the two?

 He gathers his composure. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he says, dropping his arm back down to his side. “I lost control for a moment. Please, forgive me.”

 Citlali steps away from him. Her eyes, wary and resentful, are fixed on his. “If you leave, right now, then I will forgive you.”

 Loki nods. The impossible has happened, something which throws into question every constraint he ever thought he had to fight against, and he needs to retreat from the situation and think it through.

 “I will return,” he says. It comes off as more of a warning than he intends.

 Indeed, a warning is how Citlali seems to take it. “I would rather you didn’t.”

 Loki almost laughs. How unfortunate for her that she desires to be rid of him when he is determined that he will never lose her again. In the silence that stretches on, he watches as Citlali turns on her heel and walks away as fast as she can without breaking into a run.

 The moment Loki returns to Asgard, he goes straight to the palace library to try and discover long lost passageways to Midgard. Heimdall will have already told Odin of Loki’s whereabouts, and Loki has no intention of allowing rescinded permission to use the Bifrost stop him from returning to his mortal.


	5. Chapter 5

 Loki’s insistence that he travelled to Midgard for a research opportunity, while technically not incorrect, holds no weight with Odin. The young prince is threatened with punishments of varying severity until his father finally settles on banning his use of the Bifrost until further notice and a mandatory attendance of every Court session for the next twelve months. Loki had anticipated the former, but the latter (“to teach you the importance of a prince’s responsibility to his realm!”) will be a bore. His lack of care as to the politics of farmers and tradesmen runs unfathomably deep.

 Thor waits for him outside the throne room. It’s a habit left over from childhood, when unspoken comfort and companionship were necessities after one of their father’s lectures.

 “There is nothing for you on Midgard anymore,” Thor says with a frown as the brothers make their way through the hallways. “Why did you return?”

 When presented with a choice, Loki likes to look at the situation in a way he pretends is objective but is in fact entirely self-serving. The fact is this: Thor’s affections burn hard and fast. While Loki likes to spend time unearthing ever-deeper layers of intensity inside a person, Thor plunges himself in headfirst and remains gloriously in love for a short while until his head is turned in another direction. While Thor has not mourned Åsa to the extent that Loki has, Loki still does not doubt that his brother genuinely felt something for her. If Thor hears that some semblance of Åsa may linger, he could travel to Midgard and demand to see for himself. It’s unlikely, given Thor’s surprisingly pragmatic approach to the brief life of mortals, but Loki will not risk Citlali’s attention being snatched away when he covets them so.

 “It was a research opportunity,” Loki says, echoing the smooth half-lie he had delivered to Odin.

 Unlike their father, Thor accepts Loki’s words immediately as truth. At the restoration of the natural order of things, his expression clears. “What, have you finally tired of the library?” he asks with a chuckle.

 “Asgard does not hold all the knowledge in the Nine Realms,” Loki replies with a shrug, “no matter how much the Scholars would pretend otherwise. I would see for myself the things the palace library cannot tell me.”

 It’s ironic, given Loki’s speech, that he spends the better part of the next six months entombed between bookshelves. Throughout it all, he is unbothered by the call Citlali unwittingly sends out. The pull he feels towards her is nothing more than a quiet background hum which he can tune out completely if he so chooses. He theorises that it was only because he was trying to ignore it for so long that it became so unavoidable.

 The task of cloaking himself from Heimdall’s gaze takes longer than anticipated and its answer cannot be found within books or scrolls. It’s only during an official trip to Vanaheim that he receives the solution. Once the welcome feast has progressed to the heavy drinking portion of the evening, he slips away to visit a sorceress purported to be older than the Allfather himself. They have had a few dealings in the past, during which Birsa has taught Loki the darker magics that his mother refuses to even acknowledge in their lessons, and Loki’s respect for the crone is directly proportional to how much he fears her. She gives him the answer he seeks in exchange for the short loan of a book from Asgard’s library. Loki does not ask why she wants it and she does not tell him. Theirs is an arrangement based not on trust, but on mutual recognition of the others’ best interests.

 With Odin’s ban temporarily lifted when it comes to matters of the crown, Loki travels the bridge back to Asgard with the rest of his family. It takes a great deal of effort to avoid doing anything which might raise Heimdall’s suspicions. Brimming with spiteful triumph, Loki only trusts himself to nod at the guardian and then return to the palace. The satisfaction he would feel at informing Heimdall of the flaw he intends to exploit would certainly not be worth having his plans thwarted.

 Loki returns to his studies with new, motivated fervour. After a lengthy trial and error process, he learns to recognise the different frequencies that surround hidden portals. He and Thor had stumbled upon many during their youth, but actively seeking one out is far from smooth sailing. One unfortunate trip sends Loki into the frozen wastelands of Jotunheim. He is there long enough for one panicked breath before he steps back into the safety of Asgard. He is not afraid of Frost Giants (he is _not_ ) but given their barbarity he cannot simply ignore an open portal. Though they are creatures of lower intelligence, there is every chance that one of them could stumble upon the portal and sneak an army into Asgard. Loki seals the gateway with magic only he can undo, and tells no one of its existence.

 Although the research portion of his quest is incredibly informative, Loki is pleased when his efforts pay off and he is transported to Midgard via a small tear in the universe located in a cave an hour’s ride away from the palace. Precisely _where_ in Midgard he is transported, he has no idea, but it matters little. It’s far simpler to transport himself to places on the same planet than it is to skip over entire realms with little more than a hope for the best.

 He returns to Asgard in order to begin laying groundwork to excuse his absence the next day. As the royal family gather for their evening meal, Loki makes an offhand remark about an interesting new development into his research on the ecological structure of Asgard’s bedrock, and how it could conceivably be forged into a weapon. His mother and father nod politely, but even the word ‘weapon’ cannot rouse Thor’s interest. Loki informs them that he will continue on with his theories as soon as possible and update them on his progress. Conversation quickly moves on. One day, Loki will slip something truly scandalous into their talks just to check that he is being listened to, but for now he contents himself with his established alibi.

 The sunrise finds Loki at the portal to Midgard. Something he will not describe as nerves twist in his stomach but he steps forward anyway, anti-Heimdall magic firmly in place, and travels half of Yggdrasil in a single step. The journey leaves a terrible pressure in his head – not helped by the sudden enveloping heat – but it’s certainly less ostentatious than the Bifrost. He wonders if the scorching sun means that he’s near Citlali’s home. A quick glance around disproves the theory. Citlali lives in a place where nature is bright in its lushness, and these dry and dusty plains look as though nothing has ever grown here.

 Loki takes three deep breaths before focusing on his desired destination. In the time it takes to blink, he is back among the cornstalks and the still-intense heat. His arrival is so quiet that Citlali, humming to herself nearby as she checks on the corn, does not turn around. Loki composes himself even as he feels his slicked-back hair begin to curl in the humidity. He really must visit Midgard when its temperatures are not in the extremes.

 He watches Citlali work. She lacks the refinement of an Asgardian, he decides. Her hands have seen too much labour to remain smooth, the amount of piercings in her ears would be vulgar even amongst peasants, her clothes are brashly coloured rather than muted, no attempt has been made to style her long dark hair, and her movements are made for practicality rather than fluid grace. She is beautiful, and Loki feels something curiously close to peace at being in her presence.

 “I see your corn never grew back,” he says, and grins as Citlali almost falls over in shock.

 As she scrabbles for purchase among the cornstalks, Loki glances over to the year old Bifrost landing site. He is glad that she has such a constant reminder of his existence. If he cannot forget her, she shall not forget him.

 When he turns back to Citlali, she holds aloft a crudely fashioned blade. Though privately amused, Loki makes a show of eyeing it warily. His apparent concern boosts her confidence.

 “I’ll use it,” she warns, raising her arm higher.

 “I have no doubt. However…” Loki reaches into his pocket dimension and withdraws the map he has been working on in lieu of ecological research. Citlali draws a great breath and steps back, but Loki continues regardless. “A peace offering. I imagine, after so many years of tracking the same stars, that you might like to see new ones.”

 Citlali forgets her fear in favour of outrage. Indecision marks her features as she lowers her blade. She wants to defend the eternal intrigue she finds in the stars, Loki can tell, but she also wants to see what it is the mysterious god offers. Usually, Loki would wait until he heard her admit that she wants his gift, but he will not hold his knowledge ransom at this early stage of their renewal. He unfurls the celestial map and presents it to her. She takes it as gingerly as she would cradle a newborn. It isn’t a precious artefact, or even something anyone would notice missing, but Loki can vouch for its accuracy. He charted it himself, after all.

 Citlali is silent as her eyes dart over the parchment. She stares for so long that Loki is certain that when she closes her eyes, his map will be imprinted in the darkness. He doesn’t mind and he certainly doesn’t prompt her to speak; she devours the map with the kind of single-mindedness which can only be driven by a great sense of wonder, and to break her from it would be a crime. Though her face is almost stern in its intensity, Loki catches the light in her eyes and the way her hands shake slightly. Åsa’s excitement bleeds through time and expresses itself through Citlali’s body.

 “My gods are written in the stars,” Citlali says after an age. Her eyes lift to Loki’s. “Are there gods written in yours?”

 “There are many things written in our stars,” Loki says, because he isn’t entirely sure what she’s talking about and his default position when he doesn’t understand something is to be enigmatic.

 As it happens, there are some on Asgard who claim to be able find predictions in the patterns of the stars, but Loki holds no faith in the practice. For all his magical ability and his mother’s gift for prescience, Loki puts stock in facts rather than assumptions. He has seen how detrimental assumptions can be; he often turns them against their owners.

 “I wanted to apologise again for my conduct the last time I was here,” he says, lowering his eyes to indicate regret. “As my act of penance, I would answer any questions you might have.”

 Her reply is a swift, “What are you doing here?”

 Loki suppresses a twitch in his jaw. He had hoped Citlali would be too distracted by opportunities for knowledge to question his motives. He covers his irritation with a smile.

 “My realm is different from yours,” he tells her. “I wished to see more of it, and learn from its inhabitants. But surely,” he adds before Citlali can voice her disbelief, “there are things you wish to know other than my travelling habits?”

 Citlali is not happy with the excuse she’s been given, but a greedy spark lights up her eyes at the thought of answers to the previously unanswerable. To Loki’s aching fondness, she asks the exact same things Åsa once wished to know. Her points of reference are different and there is disparity between the names of things on Midgard and Asgard, but Loki explains as much as he can with a relish bordering on joy. The unknowingly-repeated questions are just further proof that Åsa and Citlali are connected. He holds back a smile as Citlali’s mind reaches the same conclusions or makes the same missteps in logic as her predecessor. Are unique thoughts still unique if they are replicated in the same mind years later? Given the situation, Loki will have to re-evaluate his stance on uniqueness.

 The day is the first of many. Loki travels to Midgard as often as he can get away with it and watches Citlali tend her crops. The task is beneath her but despite Loki’s many offers to use magic, she insists on doing it herself. There is pride in honest work, she tells him, and Loki isn’t certain if he imagines the reproachful hint to her tone. After the unfortunate turn their first meeting took, Loki is careful to appear as non-threatening as possible. He does not touch Citlali, does not even stand too close, despite his urge to trace patterns of the constellations into her skin with a light fingertip. He imagines how she would shiver beneath his touch, how the oft-disapproving line of her mouth would part and tremble, what she might do if he kissed her, what she might plead if he dipped those same artistic fingers beneath the waist of her skirt and began his tracing anew.

 His restraint is rewarded as Citlali gradually begins to relax around him. She stops keeping her blade in plain view and only occasionally threatens him with it, which Loki chooses to view as progress. He does not think of the future, and the future, already set in stone when it comes to Citlali, shows him an equal lack of regard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was more filler than anything, but the plot picks up again next chapter (with added Thor). Thank you for your feedback, hope you enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This goes without saying, but I'm saying it anyway. Very few relationships in this fic are what could be described as healthy (lookin’ at you here, Loki). Please don’t take anything here as how 'heart eyes twu wuv' should be, because no. Alright, PSA out of the way, thank you so much for your feedback and enjoy the chapter! Thanks to Riv for her help. Also, I accidentally lied about more Thor appearances. Citlali muscled her way in instead. God of Thunder, next chapter, I SWEAR.

 Loki has only just arrived at Citlali’s cornfield when the first drops of rain begin to fall. He scowls up at the sky for interrupting what he had expected to be a leisurely day spent watching Citlali work in the baking heat, and strides over to her with the intent of interrogating her about why her land’s weather had suddenly diverted from its predictability.

 “My home is nearby, if you care for shelter,” Citlali says before Loki can speak. She averts her gaze, drawing Loki’s curiosity in the process. Shyness is not something he has yet seen from her. “My mother is at the market.”

 Loki takes this to mean that they will be unaccompanied. He cannot say that it is a misfortune.

 “Lead the way,” he says, and matches his pace to hers as they travel the short distance away from the field.

 Loki isn’t sure what he expects but it isn’t what Citlali presents him with. The clay hut before him, covered by a neatly thatched roof, is primarily rectangular although each of its corners are rounded. There are no windows as far as Loki can see, and only one door. As the hut is made entirely from organic elements, it is not a structure built to withstand time. Loki thinks of Asgard, of all the glorious buildings that were created before his birth and will continue to stand after his death. He longs for such a legacy.

 “Would you like to come in?” Citlali asks. The edge to her voice turns the request into a dare, and as Loki stoops over to avoid banging his head in the doorway, she glares at him in an odd mixture of shame and fierce pride. She expects him to make some comment on the humbleness of her home, and Loki quickly sees why.

 Although the room is a cool relief from the heat outside, it is basic in the extreme. Towards the back of the room, a wall stretches halfway across the space to indicate the separateness of the family’s sleeping area. If he walks over to it, he can see four low beds with thin mattresses and thinner cotton blankets. One side of the room passes for a kitchen, with earthen pots and rudimentary knives, while the other side is strewn with mats woven from dried grass.

 Any compliments Loki could offer would ring untrue.

 “I have seen worse,” he settles on saying. It’s a mark of Citlali’s lowered expectations that she presses her lips together and accepts his comment with a nod.

 At her direction, they sit on the woven mats in the shadow of the open doorway. Loki stretches out as he would in the palace gardens, and feels a rush of satisfaction as he catches Citlali eyeing the long lines of his legs. Outside, the rain begins to fall harder.

 “Who else lives here?” he asks.

 Citlali pauses. Loki has never asked about her family before, and she seems to be wondering how to respond. Finally, she says, “My mother, brother, and youngest sister.”

 “Youngest sister?”

 “Yes. I have three altogether.” Her smile grows fond. “Izta, Kisa, and Emetaly. Emetaly is the youngest in the family, and then my brother Chac, then me, then Kisa, then Izta.”

 Loki hopes he will not be expected to remember those names. “But no father?”

 “No. He died. Quite recently, actually.” Citlali swallows and picks at the threads of the mat. “I ought to be married by now, but my mother is unwell and Emetaly and Chac are too young to look after the household by themselves. I imagine I will find a husband soon, though.”

 _Well,_ Loki thinks, _that won’t be happening._ He may not have been able to deter Thor’s affections, but if Loki cannot fend off mortal men interested in Citlali then he does not deserve a place by her side.

 “Or perhaps not,” Citlali continues with a laugh that has a slight edge to it. “The men in the nearest village think me improper for spending so much time in the fields. It’s a woman’s place to serve her family meals, you see, not to collect the ingredients herself.”

 While Loki is displeased that Citlali’s subversions cause her unhappiness, he finds some pleasure in the idea of her nonconformity.

 “You must love your family a great deal,” he says.

 “I do.”

 They spend a minute listening to the rain patter against the walls of the hut.

 “Do you have siblings?” Citlali asks, breaking the silence.

 Loki cannot say that he has fully learnt from his mistakes with Åsa, but he knows enough to not withhold knowledge of his life on Asgard. If he’s being uncharitable to his brother, as he so often is, then he can believe that Åsa’s primary interest in Thor was down to his endless wealth of stories from his homeland. Loki will not deny himself that advantage again.

 “Yes,” he says, his eyes fixed on his boots. “I have a brother.”

 “What’s he like?”

 Loki smiles without humour. “Whose perspective do you want?”

 To his surprise, Citlali laughs. It’s a warm, light sound, at odds with her abrasive personality. “I understand,” she says, the laughter fading into a grin. “I can’t always bear my brother and sisters. When we all lived under one roof, before Izta and Kisa got married, I sometimes thought we would kill each other. My father was the peacemaker. There were times he…”

 She stops herself before the catch in her voice becomes too evident, but Loki hears her sadness anyway. He looks away politely, watching the rain through the open door, but as the silence stretches on he feels immense pressure to bridge it. He works himself up to revealing personal details about his home life, knowing that they are essential for the deeper connection he wishes to have with Citlali.

 “My mother is the peacemaker,” Loki tells her, his gaze still on the rain. “My father would tell my brother and I to work out our arguments in the training grounds. Thor always won, despite the fact he was never actually right. It was infuriating.”

 “You aren’t close with your brother, then?”

 “I love him more dearly than anyone,” Loki replies without hesitation. He glances sideways at Citlali with a slight smile playing at his lips. “Of course, I don’t always _like_ him. He can be reckless and arrogant, and he has a very frustrating aversion to common sense.”

 Citlali wrinkles her nose. “He sounds like a fool,” she says. At Loki’s surprised burst of laughter, her eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, it isn’t for me to speak of your brother like that.”

 “No,” Loki assures her, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes, “it’s perfectly fine. He _is_ a fool.”

 As the afternoon progresses, Loki feels as though he tells Citlali of every time Thor has done something indescribably stupid and he was not allowed to laugh. He makes up for it by smiling until his cheeks are sore, a welcome ache which he has not felt in years.

 By the time the rain lets up and Citlali’s family are making their way back from whatever refuge they had found beneath the market coverings, Loki’s reluctance to leave almost chains him to the ground. Still, he gathers his fortitude and stands up. Citlali follows his lead and walks him over to the door. There is a new softness in her eyes as she looks up at him.

 “You were different today,” she says as they stand just inside her doorway. “Almost human.”

 Retorts form on Loki’s tongue, tailored to distance himself from the accusation, but there is such open sincerity to Citlali that he finds he cannot voice any of them. She meant it as a compliment, and, while Loki cannot accept it as such, he will at least refrain from viewing it as an insult.

 Instead, he dips his head. “Thank you for your shelter,” he says, and takes her hand to press a kiss against her knuckles.

 Leaving her is almost worth the stunned look on her face.

 That is Citlali’s twenty third year. Her twenty fourth is characterised by Loki’s bitter regret as he tells her he will not be able to visit her for the foreseeable future. Asgard’s warriors are needed to honour their alliance with a war-stricken Vanaheim, and both Loki and his brother must be seen to be taking an active role.

 Loki, who is unafraid of anything, is hesitant to bid Citlali farewell with a kiss. If she rejects him, as a dark corner of his mind warns that she will, he could not carry such a memory into battle and expect it not to weigh heavily upon his abilities. He draws her into a close embrace and memorises the way her soft body feels against his, all the while promising his return.

 As he steps away, Citlali rises up on her toes, cups his cheek in her palm, and kisses him. It is short and very sweet, completely at odds with some of Loki’s less-than-chaste thoughts on how the moment would go, yet there’s a smile on his lips as they part. He feels a euphoria that does not fade for days. Vanaheim’s invaders do not stand a chance, although the ensuing fallout takes far too long to clean up.

 Citlali is twenty eight when Loki returns to her. He dreads what he might find; the existence of a lover or a husband will not discourage him, although he would be reluctant to tear a mother away from her children. Fortunately, Citlali has none of the above. She still cares for her family, works in the fields, and remains stubborn about her duty to continue doing so. After a welcome from her that alternates between slaps and kisses, Loki promises that he will take her anywhere in the world she wants to go. Citlali takes his hand and leads him into her hut, where they talk of where their lives had taken them in the four years they had been apart. Loki’s initial concerns that things would be awkward and stilted between them prove unfounded. Fortunately, things pick up where they had left off. Unfortunately, they had not left off nude and panting in Citlali’s bed. Loki privately cautions his desire to have patience. The virtue of immortality is that it strips away all time constraints.

 Loki had long ago decided that Idunn’s apple could do nothing to save Åsa’s mortal body by the time she ate it,  and so instead it granted her consciousness a new body into which it could transfer its power. His theory is given credence when a fever sweeps through Citlali’s village five months after his return. It claims the life of her already frail mother and strikes down her younger brother and sister, but Citlali remains in perfect health. Loki takes her throwaway comment of “I have never been ill” as gospel. If she now has the immune system of an Asgardian, then no mortal fever can touch her.

 With her mother gone and her weakened siblings in the care of her older sisters, it’s far easier to convince Citlali to leave her home for days at a time to see the world. Her twenty ninth year is spent in forests and atop mountains, squealing as she dips her toes in the sea her mainland upbringing has forbidden her from ever encountering before, and burdening Loki’s arms with her endless star charts.

 She has an exuberance for life and new experiences that Loki hopes will never fade. He is content to watch her run through the continents as though they were created solely for her discovery. When tears slip down her cheeks at the sight of the ribbons of light in the Northern sky, Loki holds her close. She nestles back into him with a small sound of contentment, and Loki begins to think that true immortality lies in moments like these. They seem to him to be so profound that they must make some kind of irremovable mark on the universe.

 He loves her, but he tells her only through gestures and immortal moments. When Citlali finally takes him to her bed, he elicits a symphony from her breath catching in her throat as he skims his fingers up the insides of her thighs, her slow, shuddering exhalations, the steadily rising volume of her cries, and the breathlessness of his name as she praises him not in the ways of mortals and gods, but in the secret tones of overdue lovers.

 She falls asleep in his arms, and Loki thinks that this is what happiness is.

 That is Citlali’s thirtieth year. Less than halfway through her thirty first, Loki is torn from his studies in the library by the sound of a single breath, and the overwhelming feeling of loss. He knows what it is even as he fights against it. With the desperation of a madman, he scrambles from his seat and transports himself to the portal in the caves. His journey takes a moment, but swiftness does not matter to the dead.

 Citlali lies motionless in her cornfield. Her body, surrounded by harvesting tools, has crushed the closest cornstalks. Loki looks at her for a moment as detachment shields his mind from the horror. He’s vaguely aware that he should be screaming, begging, shaking her until she wakes up, but all he can do is stand back and stare.

 When Loki does eventually walk forwards and lift Citlali’s body into his arms, he moves as though in a dream. Each step through and away from the field marks one step less that he will ever take on this ground again. He walks without feeling anything, and finally lowers Citlali’s body onto the ground outside one of the huts she had once pointed out as belonging to her sister Kisa.

 Loki gives Citlali’s hair one last stroke, letting its strands slip through his fingers, and then straightens and raps his knuckles against the door. As he cloaks himself and walks away, a shrill wail rises up from the house.

*

 Losing her the second time is worse, Loki discovers once sorrow finally shatters through his defences. Whereas Åsa’s passing was so pointedly ignored that Loki read grief in every Asgardian’s refusal to acknowledge her, no one knows of Citlali. No one cares that another mortal has died. No one cares that Loki is alone again.

 Another incarnation of Åsa has been born. Loki can feel her presence in the back of his mind, taunting him with her existence. He could return to Midgard and visit her, but what would be the point? She would not know him. She would not even know herself, not for many years until her personality develops into all of Åsa’s and Citlali’s quirks. Loki wonders what her name is now, and then forcibly derails that train of thought. Naming leads to attachment, and he cannot grieve this way forever. He has cursed her into this cycle and now he must stay away.

 Loki wastes decades searching for research on reincarnation that simply does not exist, and wastes longer still trying to convince himself that this bastardisation of the reincarnation cycle was not his doing. It never works. Did his exact words not specify that Åsa should never grow older than the age she was when she ate the apple? He thought he had circumvented all problems with this specificity, but of course he had just made them worse. He knows now that immortality is not defined by agelessness. He sometimes thinks he should just have let Åsa die in her little wooden cabin, as the universe intended, and then loathes himself for such a thought.

 He becomes attuned to the moments preceding the new incarnation’s death. Regardless of mortality rates, she always survives five months, eight days, eleven hours, fifty six minutes and twenty two seconds into her thirty first year. Loki memorises this figure and then destroys the clock he enchanted to count away the seconds of her life. Despite his distance, he still grieves every last breath he hears.

 Loki fills nights of meaningless conquests with the happiness he could have had. He searches for blind passion to burn away the softer side of him. He had been gentle, almost reverential, with Citlali, and for the next three hundred years he does not touch another woman in the same way. He is not loving. He is not tender. He does not ask for the names of those who warm his bed, and he does not acknowledge them once they are done. His courtesy extends to ensuring his partner is sated before she leaves, but even this is mostly done to protect his own reputation. Let it never be said that Loki leaves his conquests unsatisfied.

 Thor is thrilled at the way his little brother embraces Asgardian values. In addition to the women – and occasional man – he takes to his bed, Loki honours Asgard by finding a new ferociousness in battle and hunts alike. He is quick on his feet, quicker with his dagger, and separates himself entirely from notions of justice and mercy. He cannot match Thor for strength, but his spars with Sif and the Warriors Three are more evenly balanced. In quantities of ale imbibed, they are all equal.

 Loki could find a shallow happiness in the life he leads on Asgard, if not for the presence constantly in the back of his mind. He gives into it, eventually. How could he not? If nothing else, hers is a case without precedence and Loki still prizes knowledge above anything else. He could be the first to discover the key to reincarnation if he travels to Midgard, keeps keep a careful distance, and objectively examines the extent of the most recent incarnation’s likeness to Åsa and Citlali. It’s possible she will be entirely different; he has only met two incarnations and thus only encountered their unique way of thinking twice. Twice is a coincidence, not a pattern. 

 (Centuries of rationalisations are stripped away every time Loki looks up at the stars. He misses her, whoever she is now, and he wants to see her again.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating took a slight (five day) derailment because of influx of real life but I’m back and ready to write more angst. Altogether now: LOVE IS PAIN. Ahem. Another reason for the delay was that I spent quite awhile writing back stories to the incarnations mentioned in this chapter which didn't end up making the cut due to word count issues (16th Century Jane struggling to reconcile her love for astrology with her religious beliefs, you say? Her visiting Confession to unburden her soul without realising that Loki sits listening on the other side of the partition, you say? Potential interest for a oneshot, I ask?)
> 
> Two chapters to go until we meet Jane, and then things really kick off. Thank you for your feedback, you are marvellous. Enjoy the chapter!

 For all the time Loki has spent away from Midgard, the journey there is just as he remembers. He arrives in the hot desert disoriented and with a skull that threatens to split open from the differences in air pressure. Loki scowls until the pain recedes and then focuses on the faint call of Åsa’s energy. She is nowhere near where the portal deposited him, for which he is glad, although it takes him a few minutes to get an exact idea of her location. He should have practiced the skill before leaving Asgard, for now it seems that every second not spent by her side is a second wasted.

 Finally, Loki gathers his wits about him and transports himself to the new Åsa’s location. His initial thought upon arriving is that he should return to the desert. It lacked charm and was entirely too hot, but it was eternally preferable to the cesspit of a city he finds himself in.

 Three storey houses with black and white striped timber facades are crammed tightly together, separated only by a street narrower than Loki’s arm-span. Death pervades the air already thick with the stench of waste. The street Loki stands in is empty, although he can hear the trundling wheels of a cart somewhere close by. He tunes out the shouts and the wails and thinks only of his own determination to ensure the latest incarnation never has to step foot here again.

 Loki edges his way through the streets as he tracks the siren call of a long lost love. His transportation skills left a little to be desired, but then he had not had cause to travel around Midgard for centuries. It’s a skill he will hone again.

 The call is at its loudest as the street widens slightly. Loki watches his step and tries to breathe through his mouth as he treads towards a house on the left. Even for Midgardians, these standards of living are disgusting. Loki barely pays attention to the lack of space in the street until he is presented with an unusual standard of measurement. There is just enough room, apparently, for the Bifrost to have blasted down and deposited an otherworldly visitor. Loki stares at the mark. Its recent power signature still burns the air. His stomach turns with fear. Had his father had enough of indulging his youngest son’s foolishness and decided to permanently remove the distraction? With worst case scenarios running through his mind, Loki darts forward over the mark and through the open door.

 Thor’s unmistakeable outline is crouched down next to a much smaller figure. The God of Thunder looks up at the sound of footsteps. When he sees his brother, his expression hardens. Loki takes a second to process relief, confusion, suspicion, all before pausing to take stock of the stranger he already knows he loves. She sits amid a pile of bodies ravaged by plague. Her hair is red this time, and her eyes are green, although each have been dimmed by the same malnourishment that has wasted away her body. The hand Thor has placed on her shoulder threatens to engulf her. She is no less lovely than her previous shells, and the ache within Loki is soothed to see her again.

 “Pack whatever belongings you have,” Thor tells the girl as he stands. “I will take you somewhere else.”

 She stares at the hand Thor offers to her before accepting it with a trembling hand of her own. Thor is gentle in helping her up and puts a steadying hand on her lower back when she wavers.

 “I will take you away from here,” Thor assures her with a soft smile.

 A familiar resentment stirs in Loki. He watches the new incarnation as she climbs the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall for support as she goes. She is physically unaffected by illness, as ever, but Loki cannot vouch for her emotional state. Flies are starting to gather around the bodies of the people she presumably loved.

 The moment she is out of sight, Thor grabs Loki by the arm and heaves him out onto the street. His grip is more painful than its usual solid grasp and, as Thor stands back to glower at his little brother, Loki is reminded that he should tread carefully.

 “What is this?” Thor asks, shifting into the stance Loki recognises as preparing for a fight.

 Loki raises an eyebrow. “It appears to be some sort of plague. Alright!” he adds quickly as Thor growls and steps forward. “Alright. Let’s not kick the Midgardians while they’re down by decimating their homes. What are you doing here?”

 Thor’s hand relaxes from where it had been hovering over Mjolnir’s handle. It was an empty threat – Thor would never use his most powerful weapon on his brother except in training exercises – but it was a threat nonetheless. Loki keeps one eye on his brother and one eye on the doorway behind him.

 “Heimdall summoned me the moment you reached the Setergrotta Caves,” Thor says, anger etched into every line of his expressive features. “He would not explain the circumstances, just that I was to travel to Midgard and find the girl in the nearest house to the landing site. He said that you would be along shortly, although I did not wish to believe it.”

 He looks at Loki as though he still can’t quite believe it. Loki wonders if it’s too late to use the cloaking magic he had so foolishly forgotten to cast during his eagerness to reach Midgard. Such a tiny mistake has cost him his secrecy, and Loki is too frustrated by it to understand the implications it will have.

 “Heimdall ought not meddle,” he mutters, already concocting revenge schemes against the guardian.

 “Heimdall is trying to save you from the pain you seem intent on inflicting upon yourself!” Thor’s shout rings through the narrow street. “How could you seek out another mortal for companionship? Do you not remember Åsa?”

 Loki laughs. He can’t help it; it’s an absurd question from his absurd brother who, as usual, has barrelled his way into a situation without knowing a single thing about it.

 Thor does not take kindly to the perceived mockery. He grabs Loki by the collar and shoves him against the stone wall of the house, snarling as he does so. Loki’s laughter fades into a sharp, condescending grin that leaves his eyes cold.

 “For once in your life, brother, _think_. You were there when Åsa died. You heard the enchantment I placed upon Idunn’s apple. You even said it yourself: she is not meant for magic.” He waits for understanding to light up Thor’s eyes, but as ever he is left disappointed. “Idunn’s apple made it so she would have an Aesir’s lifespan. I made it so that she would never live beyond her thirty first year.”

 “Yes," Thor says slowly. Confusion threads through his anger. "The spells counteracted, and Åsa died.”

 “No, Thor!” Loki shoves against his brother in frustration, but Thor does not release him. “You think such powerful magic could just fail? I cursed Åsa into five thousand years’ worth of lifetimes which only last three decades.”

 Thor releases his brother and takes a step back. A scowl twists his features but as his eyes flick inside the house, Loki can see the horror within them. He feels a grim satisfaction that someone else can finally see the terrible fate he has cast upon the woman he supposedly loves. He doesn’t know if he wants his suffering to be acknowledged or if he wants to be punished for it.

 Thor turns back to his little brother. “So the girl in there…”

 “Is Åsa’s latest incarnation.”

 As ever, Thor’s comprehension hits several stumbling blocks. “But she did not recognise me.”

 “She wouldn’t,” Loki says, looking away. “Her memory resets with each new birth.”

 Thor frowns at the resignation in Loki’s tone. “You have seen her before now?”

  “My magic forged a connection with her.” Loki forces a steady voice, although in truth he is cautious of what Thor might do if he thinks he has been deceived. “I’ve been aware of her situation since her second incarnation was twenty years old.”

 Sure enough, Thor’s face darkens. Loki braces himself, but his brother chooses words for once. “Why did you not tell me of this? I could have visited her, I could have –”

 “What?” Loki cuts across, a sudden burst of outrage rising in him. How dare Thor think he can outwit all those centuries Loki spent in failed research, as though his mere presence was a cure-all? “What could you have done?”

 “I could have helped her!”

 “I doubt a hammer to the head is what she needs right now, Thor!”

 Thor’s eyes flash, and for a second Loki thinks that the only blow to the head will be his. His world narrows to glares and jagged breaths as Thor tries to master the anger which strains at his every muscle. He lifts a shaking finger and jabs it in Loki’s direction.

 “She is a mortal you have dragged into the world of the gods. Father must know of this.”

 Everything Loki had felt prior to that comment now seems like mild concern compared to the panic that almost has him stumbling over his words. “Thor, no, you can’t.”

 “Do you wish to keep her trapped like this?” 

 “I wish to keep her alive!”

 “Father will find a cure.”

 Loki grits his teeth. As much as he loves, respects, and fears his father, it has been a long time since he viewed him with the same blind worship as Thor. “What do you imagine he’ll do to the mortal who would distract his son and heir for the next few millennia?” he demands. “She may be difficult to kill but her neck will slice open under dwarf-forged blades just as any other Asgardian’s would!”

 Thor looks as though he wants to argue but cannot find a way to disagree. He turns the accusation around on Loki with a gesture into the empty doorway. “So you would leave her to her cursed cycle? That is far crueller than a final death.” His features soften slightly. “You are not cruel, brother.”

  _Perhaps not,_ Loki thinks, _but I am selfish._

 A small noise from inside the house announces company. Thor turns to look at the girl with a scrutiny that has her averting her gaze in uncertainty. It takes physical effort for Loki to stop himself from rolling his eyes at his brother’s utter lack of subtlety.

 “What’s your name?” he asks the girl, lowering his voice to reflect the solemnity of the death-strewn city. He did not care a whit of the mortals who had lost their lives, but he was willing to bet that the girl appreciated his consideration.

 She looks at him for a long moment before replying, “Matilda.”

 A calculating look passes over her face, as though she recognises him vaguely now that he stands in the sunlight, but cannot place him. It’s gone before Loki can assure himself it was there.

 “Matilda,” Thor repeats, claiming the name before Loki can. He lifts the travelling case she drags behind her and smiles at his own selflessness. Loki remembers all the times Thor made Asgard's servants carry anything from a single piece of parchment to statues crafted from marble.

 Matilda looks at the elder prince as though he hung the stars. Loki resigns himself once again.

*

 In a breathtaking display of arrogance that impresses even Loki, Thor secures Matilda a job as a governess in a grand manor simply by walking into the foyer of the first country house Loki transports him to and informing its master that he is to hire Matilda, provide her accommodation, and pay her a more-than-fair wage. The way Mjolnir reduces a grandfather clock to splinters earns a swift agreement. Loki and Matilda build up a camaraderie through silent, disbelieving glances.

  
 Weeks later, during a visit to Midgard which Thor could not attend (due to having no knowledge of it), Loki and Matilda sit on a hill overlooking the city. Despite the crisp air, Loki can still smell the death below. He worries if it was perhaps insensitive to bring Matilda to the scene of her greatest loss, but the sadness she carries about her seems soothed by the sight of her home.

 As she sits in silence, Loki tries to think of ways to start topics about the universe. Thor had brushed off his attempts in earlier visits by insisting they speak of lighter things, and then rushing ahead with descriptions of Asgard that captivated Matilda. Yet Loki is like a child with a secret he is bursting to share; all he needs is Matilda to give him the right segue into proving how well-matched they are, and she will never so much as think about Thor again.

 Until that time, she seems intent on talking about him.

 “He stood in my doorway,” she remembers. A soft smile touches her lips as she gazes into the distance, lost in the memory. “I thought he was an angel come to take me at last, but he took my hand and he led me away.”

 Loki’s smile is cold. “Is he what you imagine an angel to look like?”

 “You both are.” At Loki’s sharp glance, a flush creeps up Matilda’s neck. She looks away. “I mean, you both seem as though you belong somewhere else. Somewhere better.”

 Loki cannot disagree with the latter part, although it’s the first time in centuries he has been associated with anything angelic. “Asgard, where I belong, is beautiful,” he says instead, agreeing as much as he can without sounding condescending.

 Matilda nods, her theory proven correct. Her eyes rove over the smoke rising from the city sprawled beneath her and she sighs deep enough to drag it into her lungs and expel it again. Loki shifts to take stock of her profile. Her skin may be free from the pockmarks that defiled her friends and family but death has left other scars on her. It has gouged tight lines around a mouth which only gods can coax a smile from, and painted shadows beneath her eyes. Her mind has been touched by a hint of madness evident from the way she systematically tears blades of grass from their beds and shreds them with her blunted fingernails.

 “Is there illness in your home?” she asks, turning to Loki without warning.

 Loki is unashamed to have been caught staring so blatantly. “Not to this extent.” He pauses, remembering how well Citlali responded to hearing personal details. “We are very difficult to kill, and we have skilled healers and magic on hand to deal with life-threatening injuries. When we die, it tends to be through battle or old age.”

 Matilda takes a moment to process this. Her hands pause in their shredding endeavour. “How old is old age?”

 “Five thousand years. Give or take.”

 Matilda’s eyebrows shoot up. “Five thousand years,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine living that long.”

 Loki doesn’t reply.

*

 Years pass.

 Loki falls in love again.

 Matilda does not.

 At least, not with him.

*

 Thor carries out his quest for a cure mainly by following Loki’s directions to a particular book/gemstone/magical artefact rumoured to negate the effects of Idunn’s apples. From a purely theoretical standpoint, it’s encouraging that nothing can be found and the proto-immortality of the apples is irreversible. What would be a cure for Matilda would be a death sentence for the rest of the Aesir if it fell into the wrong hands. On an emotional level, each failure is a crushing blow.

 “Do you think it will hurt her, when she dies?” Thor asks quietly one night as the brothers work in the library. It’s the first time in centuries that Thor has willingly stepped into the cavernous room. Loki tries not to feel as though his sanctuary has been invaded by someone who could knock over every bookshelf in a matter of moments.

 “I doubt she feels a thing,” Loki says, not looking up from the book he pores over. “Life is taken from her in the time it takes to exhale.”

 He hears that breath in his nightmares.

 “She doesn’t deserve to die.”

 Loki isn’t sure whether he imagines the accusation in Thor’s tone.

*

 As Matilda’s thirty first year reaches its fifth month, Loki braces himself for loss. He has not yet told Thor of the exact time Matilda will die. In his darker moments, Loki debates telling him at all. Matilda gave her life to Thor; perhaps her death could be Loki’s alone. In the end, Loki schedules a convenient visit to Matilda and brings Thor along. He half-hopes that seeing Matilda die will dissuade Thor from seeking her out in her next life, all the while vowing that nothing will break his own conviction to see her again.

 Despite everything, a part of Loki believes he can save Matilda. On her final day, the three of them sit on the hill overlooking the city (his idea) while sampling a picnic basket (her idea) and wondering aloud if there is any more food to be had (Thor’s idea). Matilda sits nestled against Thor’s side and within the one-armed embrace he drapes over her shoulders. She catches Loki staring at her more than once, but he can only reply to her raised eyebrows with a slight smile. She loves the grass and fresh air just as Loki loves seeing her amongst them. She is happy and carefree, everything he could wish for.

 They bury her on the hillside.

 “There was no sign,” Thor mutters as he digs a grave with shovels Loki acquired. “How can I prevent it if I cannot see it coming?”

 Loki holds his silence. He is surprised, always surprised, at the depths of his own grief. He finds it incredible that his body has not yet developed some sort of coping mechanism against it.

 It storms nonstop for a week on Asgard, after which Thor returns to his determination to act a hero and save the damsel. Loki resents him for reducing Åsa to little more than a problem to be solved and congratulated on.

 The brothers do not visit every incarnation. Aside from their duties as princes and ensuring their father has no reason to ban them from Midgard, the short amount of time they can spend with the new Åsa is nothing. Even Loki recognises that a repeated cycle of having her one day and losing her the next is the quickest path to madness. Instead, they reintroduce themselves to her on every third or fourth cycle and hope that time has somehow managed to cure what they could not.

 It’s never the case, of course. Cecilia does not remember Loki, nor does Beatriz, Maiara, or – in a bizarre twist of fate – Friedrich. Whereas Thor falters at the anomaly of the latter, Loki shrugs, changes his form, and lives for several happy years as the sole focus of attention. Adaptation is the key to success, after all.

 Unfortunately for Loki, Friedrich does indeed prove to be an anomaly. No matter her incarnation, one glance at the sun always blinds Åsa to anything other than the brightest light. Loki, who has always shone that little bit dimmer than Thor, does not stand a chance. After a century or two, he learns to stop trying to be her first choice. Instead, he subverts himself completely. He becomes a shadow, insinuating his way into her life by offering her the knowledge that Thor will not or cannot provide.

 Loki decides that he likes the symmetry of it. Thor can play the hero as much as he wants, but Loki has always had a claim on Åsa. Her desire for knowledge outstrips her love for Thor – perhaps even for Loki, although Loki knows how to work with this desire rather than compete against it. He seduces her with the names of nebulae and the descriptions of the final moments of a dying star. For all that she resists being lured away from Thor, she is always willing by the time Loki is in her bed.

 Guilt rarely troubles Loki, and he easily rationalises it away the few times it does hit him. For all his boisterousness, Thor has a surprising soft spot for weak things. During their childhood, he had rescued more than one kitten from the streets of Asgard and raised it in a box beneath his bed. If he had not one day forgotten to hide the box away from the servants, there would likely still be cats prowling the halls of the palace. Loki is certain that his brother sees Åsa as one such tiny kitten whom he can rescue from its own helplessness and remind himself of his own heroism. For all his dubious intentions, Loki at least loves her for her humanity.

 He never mentions this to Thor, content to let his brother believe that he simply enjoys the company of Åsa’s latest incarnation for the lively discussions she provides about the universe. Telling Thor of how his little brother covets what the God of Thunder believes to be his would only evoke anger or, worse, pity. There is a much deeper pleasure in publicly treating with perfunctory friendliness the woman who moans his name in private as he licks slow, deliberate circles between her thighs.

 Loki could, and does, visit an incarnation independent of his brother, but he finds that her love matters most if it’s an active choice of him over Thor. Otherwise, she is settling without being aware of it. Loki pushes himself further into the competition none but he knows exists, telling himself that perhaps this time it will not hurt so much to lose.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feedback! Enjoy the chapter :)  
> (I don't know why I'm smiling, you know by now that this is a fic of pain)

  
 The year on Midgard is 1870, and Loki is exhausted. Rani, as she is called here, has fallen asleep on his bare chest. He draws an arm around her form and holds her close as he checks the silencing wards he placed on her bedchamber. They had been cast hastily – he was rather distracted at the time by Rani’s fingers scrabbling at his breeches – but they have held. A scandal has been avoided once again. Though his body is sated and he could easily sleep, Loki’s mind treads the same weary paths as it has for the last few years. Something which seemed impossible one thousand years ago is slowly coming to pass: he can see defeat looming.

 Thor has already accepted that he cannot help Åsa and has retreated – although he would never use such terminology – back to his life of adventuring on Asgard. Loki’s refusal to give up and stay away sours his time spent with Rani, and his frustration seeps into every aspect of their life together. He detests the Lords and Ladies around him, who act as paragons of virtue until the doors of their mansions close. Corruption is an open secret among the upper classes of the city of London, to the extent that Loki is bored by it all. He could show them debauchery, he could show them sin, he could show them the darkest sides of themselves. Compared to the God of Mischief, the Midgardians are nothing more than giggling women lifting their skirts to reveal a glimpse of ankle.

 Rani is the only one he can stand in the whole damn city. Her endless curiosity reminds Loki of why he seeks her out through the centuries, and for a while it’s enough for him to brighten his dismal outlook by feeding off her enthusiasm for discovery. Yet time slips away, and Loki’s optimism goes along with it. He is in love with a paradox, fleeting yet constant, and concepts are not meant to be loved as deeply as he loves her.

 She loves him too, in this life. Beyond her admiring glances and blushes, she shares her ever-changing theories with him, demonstrating them with stray objects around her bedchamber when she cannot find ink and paper. Loki, often found lying on her bed, props himself up on his elbows and watches with deep amusement as Rani tears through her wardrobe to find something to properly symbolise the idea running through her mind. She talks to herself constantly, affirming and then abandoning thoughts as soon as they come to her. After a few minutes, a constellation is illustrated by corset strings strategically placed on the bottom of the bed, while several mismatched earrings provide the map its focus points. Loki waits until Rani is finished before pulling her back down to the bed and proving himself mightier than the now-flattened constellation.

 Her attraction to him always silences any social or cultural objections she might raise to what is fashionably known as fornication. Loki wants to attribute this to some kind of prowess on his behalf, but an increasing melancholia tells him that Åsa’s incarnations only ever appear bewitched because he literally infused her with magic.

 At the very least, Rani shares both his dislike of society and his status as an outsider in it. She has been plucked from her homeland – a place of heat and spices, she tells him – and paraded about the dreary halls of high society at the whims of a man who cannot tell the difference between friend and kidnapper. Some prince or other decided to bring about a melding of cultures through the form of the beautiful daughter of a foreign ruler, and in the process forgot that Rani was not a relic to be placed on display.

 (After all this time, Loki still finds it absurd that one small realm should have so many different rulers. This Empire seems to have made a valiant attempt at unification, but is still nowhere near total dominion.)

 With her royal blood, Rani is the closest incarnation yet to match Loki in social status. She still falls short; the title ‘Prince of the Realm Eternal’ has no equal on Midgard. Her accented English is a source of great intrigue at the many public functions she attends, as is the dark shade of her skin. The phrase “exotic beauty” is trotted out so many times that its cadence changes from an attempt at a compliment to something spoken by those who can only see Rani’s otherness.

 Loki accompanies Rani to the many dances she is expected to attend, and soon discovers that gossip is the currency of choice among the ladies there. The titles ‘chaperone’ and ‘lover’ become interchangeable where he is concerned. He has a somewhat amusing time telling elaborate stories to explain his absence from Rani’s side when Asgard needs him, and his straight-faced sincerity convinces those suspicious of him that he can be trusted. It’s hardly a victory; here, lies are commonplace enough that some people have forgotten what truth sounds like.

 Rani enjoys the title of Ambassador which is bestowed upon her, yet she overestimates her freedom. When her vocalised thoughts turn to studying the skies, the indulgences of the gentlemen at the latest dance turn into uncomfortable clearing of throats and hasty changes of subjects. Women are not yet permitted to attend institutes of higher learning, and even one with royal connections cannot subvert this rule.

 Loki feels these restrictions more keenly than ever. His resentment of the mortals deepens into something close to hatred. Do they not realise how short their lives are? They ought to deny nothing given that they will be dust faster than Loki can blink. Over the course of a few months, this clearer sense of urgency extends to his relationship with Rani.

 He had assumed himself free of jealousy now that Thor is no longer a contender (on Midgard, at least) but he cannot compartmentalise the resentment which stems from his life in Asgard. Loki has always known that he is the second son in more ways than birth, but he is slowly realising just how unequal he is to Thor. His magic is scorned, his suggestions go ignored, he is the object of ridicule and then outrage when he responds to the insult. These things only tighten his grasp on Rani, the one he is destined to lose, for it feels like she is the only one in the Nine Realms who appreciates what others mock.

 His devotion becomes inextricably linked to a dark possessiveness that rears its head at the most innocuous of moments and sends his mood spiralling. Rani barely has to look at another man before Loki ascribes connotations which his muted rationality knows do not exist. He becomes convinced that he has been replaced in her affections, and he loathes the supposed usurper until he can barely restrain the tension inside his unhappy heart.

 Rani doesn’t have a frame of reference for who Loki once was, but after every jealous outburst he wants to take her in his arms and promise her that he was not always this way. He was, if not soft, then at least gentler. Inferiority did not haunt his every action. He would have protected her from men like the one he has become.

 One explosive argument proves to be the final straw. Rani tells him to leave until he has learned the proper way to treat one he claims to love. Loki almost splinters the door to her bedchamber as he slams it closed behind him. His anger persists until the moment he returns to Asgard, at which point shame and regret descend on him. As though on instinct, he seeks out his mother as he has not done in centuries. She sits in her personal chamber weaving at her loom, a hobby which took root before Loki was born and one which always soothed him to watch as a child. He stares at it, wondering at his own misery, as Frigga quietly dismisses her handmaidens. She gestures for her son to take a seat on the low couch by her closed balcony windows. Loki sits and hunches over like a child, not stopping until he has buried his face in his hands.

 His mother’s touch is soft on his shoulder. “Will you tell me what troubles you?”

 Loki shakes his head, not at her but at the situation. “I can’t keep doing this, Mother,” he says, his voice barely audible through his palms. “I can’t keep finding her only to lose her again.”

 He hears Frigga move back to her loom and is grateful that she would afford him privacy. He does so loathe to be perceived as weak.

 “I am not myself…” he begins, and then amends, “I am not the man I _want_ to be when I am with her, because all I can think of is how she will soon be gone.”

 Frigga considers his words. Loki is content to wait; he has confided in his mother about Åsa before, although he has never been so forward in his regret. Then again, never before has he been at such a loss as to what to do. He prides himself on always having plans, or at the very least knowing how to improvise, but his current predicament is not something he can plot through or manipulate.

 “I think,” Frigga begins carefully, “that love does not always justify the pain it causes. You burden yourself with a weight you cannot ease but can choose not to carry. The burden is not yours alone,” she continues when Loki makes a move to interrupt. “Given her misfortunes, the girl deserves a chance at a simple life with a mortal beloved, short though her time may be.”

 Loki frowns. “She is free to fall in love with whom she chooses.” It is, in fact, the entire point.

 “You strip her of the chance to.” There is pity in her voice, but Loki cannot for the life of him figure out towards whom it is directed. His mother seems to have sided with a mortal she has never met over her own flesh and blood. “The gods shine too brightly for her to see anyone else.”

 Loki is silent for a long time. He pictures different smiles and feels his heart constrict at the memory of them. He has loved and lost so many times that he has become wrapped up in his own selfish pain. Åsa could have been spending her days with a man who would worship her constantly, instead of the intermittent love Loki and Thor have been offering her. _It has never been enough_ , Loki realises with a pang. The brothers only ever gave her a half-life within her already stunted existence.

 When Loki finally speaks, it’s with sad resignation.

 “I have to let her go, don’t I?”

 He isn’t certain if he’s asking for permission or a command, although he thinks that for once he would prefer the latter. He wants to distance himself as much as possible from making the choice to leave Åsa alone with the curse he placed on her.

 Frigga grants him salvation. “Yes, my darling.”

 Loki only nods.

*

 Of course, it isn’t as simple as all that. Loki has a firm enough control over his mind that he can prevent himself from actively thinking about Åsa, including hushing the ever-present connection to her in the back of his head, but his subconscious refuses to adhere to these strict prohibitions.

 He dreams of Åsa often and in a variety of situations. If given a choice, he would only ever wish for the dreams in which she lies bare before him – her eyes, dark with want, fixed on him as she trails a finger down over her breasts and stomach. She is already slick, he knows in the logic of a dream, and it’s enough to send him mad even before the whimper she makes as her finger dips inside.

 This preference would not be made for reasons one would usually assume; Loki can banish the memory of these dreams with a few swift strokes and a half-muffled groan into his pillow, and then go about his day as usual.

 The dreams he dreads are the ones which depict normal aspects of their lives together, for they offer him a far more painful kind of intimacy. In one such dream, she lies in bed next to him as they both huddle beneath a plain white sheet. Sunlight streams in from a nearby open window, illuminating the bedding. Strands of her golden hair shine in the disarray his carding fingers had caused the night before. He says something, he can never remember what, and a wide grin splits her face. She looks at him with such soft and honest love that his heart aches to remember it upon waking.

 Despite this, Loki does not return to Midgard. Now, a century and a half after his final goodbye to Åsa, he has other concerns to occupy his mind. He wakes on the morning of Thor’s coronation – or rather, Thor’s soon-to-be thwarted coronation – and smiles to himself, having taken his dreamless sleep as a good omen of things to come.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different. In a way, everything before now has been a prologue. These next couple of chapters are precursors to where I always intended for the story to start, but it made sense to tell the backstory in full chapters rather than flashbacks. This chapter follows the timeline of the first Thor movie, just as the next one will follow The Avengers, but little things have been changed or added. Some dialogue, although lifted from the film, has been revised for brevity’s sake. (Ha, brevity. I keep using that word. It does not mean what I think it means.)  
> Thank you for your feedback, you are wonderful. Enjoy the chapter!

 Thor’s day had started out a single step away from becoming the most politically powerful god in the Nine Realms, and ended in a series of humiliations ranging from banishment, demotion to a mortal form, and being defeated by the puniest weapon he has ever seen. Yet by the next morning’s breakfast, which takes place around a small table in Jane Foster’s kitchen/dining area, Thor has already decided to put the events of the previous day behind him. He’s certain he will soon be back on Asgard, and until then he will take this as an opportunity for expanding his cultural awareness.

 (That, at least, was the phrase Loki had coined long ago to explain the brothers’ exploits on other realms. It had only ever earned them a long-suffering sigh from their mother and a flat stare from their father, but perhaps the Midgardians would be more willing to believe it.)

 Midgard has changed much in the three or four hundred years since Thor last visited it, both in technology and society. He can already see that the women are far more liberated, which he appreciates; he doubts he could befriend anyone who was too meek to voice a disagreement against him. It’s certainly the foundation of his friendship with Sif.

 The impending war with Jotunheim weighs heavily on his mind but there is little he can do about it from halfway across the universe. He will find his hammer, which will restore his godhood, and then Heimdall will allow him to access the Bifrost. At least until then he still retains some strength, as attested to by his survival of the poison the mortal healers had inflicted upon him, the way he broke their feeble bonds, and his refusal to stay down despite being repeatedly struck by Jane Foster’s vehicle.

 (No matter what she insists, Thor cannot help but take the latter offence personally. She has not hit anyone other than him. He sees her blushes when he does something chivalrous – perhaps assaulting him with metal is an odd attempt at flirtation on her part?)

 He wishes Loki was here with him. His brother has a gift for assessing a situation within moments and reacting accordingly. He would be able to tell Thor whether Jane was murderous or smitten.

 At this precise moment, she is neither. The hour is early, and Jane leans against the cabinets of her tiny kitchen area with her hands clasped around a steaming mug. _Her third cup of the morning_ , Darcy tells Thor across the table in lowered tones. Her voice carries nonetheless, given the way Jane’s fingers tighten around the handle.

 “I need it,” Jane says with a defensive edge to her tone. “I didn’t sleep well. Had some kind of dream about corn.”

 Darcy scoffs. “Corn?”

 “Yeah, I was really protective over it –” Jane takes a draught from her beverage “– which is so weird, because I don’t even like corn.”

 “Yeah, you do,” Darcy says through a mouthful of what she has termed Frosted Flakes (they’re great, apparently, although Thor isn’t so sure).

 “No, I don’t.”

 “You like _pop_ corn.”

 Jane takes another drink to grant her fortitude and then levels Darcy with a look over the rim of her mug. “If you need me to explain the difference between corn and popcorn –”

 “Nope, that seems like sciencey stuff to me,” Darcy interrupts with a shrug. “Not my forte. If the corn and popcorn were having some sort of political debate, I would be your girl.”

 Thor watches the conversation with growing bewilderment. Darcy seems to be some kind of servant to Jane, judging by the way Jane issues commands which Darcy complies with, and yet Thor has never seen such a dysfunctional master/servant relationship. If any servant on Asgard dared to show their superior the disrespect that Darcy shows with her disagreements and interruptions, they would be flogged.

 He glances at the other occupant of their small table, Erik Selvig. Erik removes himself from the discussion by drinking his fruit juice in silence and rifling through a newspaper, as he had referred to the thin sheets of parchment while asking Darcy to retrieve it. Thor will ask to borrow these papers of news once Erik has read them all. Learning about Midgard in any capacity will be beneficial during his time here.

 “Here,” Jane Foster says, setting a spoon and empty bowl in front of him. “Uh, in case you’re hungry.”

 He is, and there does not seem to be any other option than the Frosted Flakes. Resigned, Thor copies Darcy’s earlier process of pouring the small, impressively crunchy, fragments into the bowl and then adding milk. He cannot vouch for the milk’s freshness, given that he has yet to see a single cow in this area of Midgard, but Darcy does not seem ill-affected by consuming it. He digs his spoon in and takes a single mouthful before finishing the bowl in under a minute. He would smash it on the ground to show his appreciation, but for the mess the dregs would make. Instead, he pushes it away and looks up expectantly. When no one responds, it becomes clear that he must announce his intentions.

 “I want more.”

 “Yeah,” Darcy says, glancing at the writing on the back of a box which she then presents to Thor. “That’ll be the sugar. It’s kind of addictive.”

 “Addictive?” Thor frowns, taking the flimsy container from her. He has always been taught that addiction is a sign of weakness, for it shows that a man does not have power over his own desires. He scans the lines of text but cannot make sense of any of it. “Your sugar is vastly different than Asgard’s.”

 “Our sugar has chemicals in it even _I_ can’t pronounce,” Jane says as she swipes the box away from him. “It’ll rot your teeth.”

 It sounds dreadful. Thor wonders if such a potent thing could be utilised as a weapon, and then quickly thinks better of it. He is not here for war when it was war that banished him in the first place. Of course, he doubts there is anywhere lower than Midgard his father could send him to if he were to misbehave in this realm, but he does not wish to risk it. He has learned his lesson (not to do anything which will result in banishment to Midgard, for it is truly a dull place) and is quite ready to go home and ascend to the throne.

 Until then, Thor will remain amused by Jane Foster’s boldness. She has a lot of indignation for one so small, and a stubborn countenance which reminds him of the women on Asgard. She pours herself another hot drink and sips at it as she watches him from across the room. Thor meets her gaze, expecting to see the usual appreciation and respect, and is mollified to see only speculation. It’s the look Loki gives him sometimes, except Loki’s look is always followed by exasperated questioning of Thor’s intelligence. Jane, he thinks, wants to know about Thor the Scientific Anomaly Who Fell from the Sky, rather than Thor the God of Thunder and Prince of Asgard.

 Thor later uses her curiosity as leverage to get her to take him to the site where Mjolnir has landed. After a false start and a brief stint in a place which claims to stock animals yet does not sell horses – kittens are adorable but of limited usefulness, and the less said about caged reptiles the better – Jane drives them away from the small town and towards Thor’s means of returning home.

 Thor had meant to use this time to question Jane about the number of curious things he has seen so far on Midgard, but the lull in conversation he expects never occurs and he is instead left to contemplate the growing fondness he feels for the mortal beside him. He admires her bravery and determination, and is reminded of Åsa when Jane asks him for knowledge. The comparison brings a pang of sadness for the woman he could not save. Thor hopes that wherever she is, if she has not yet found a release from her cycle, Åsa is happy.

 Jane really is terrible at commanding her vehicle, but Thor finds himself laughing along with her instead of gripping the seat in terror when she swerves. He at least stands little chance of being struck by the van if he is inside it.

 Rather than panic upon seeing the protective city built around Mjolnir, Thor relishes the challenge. Battlelust rises in him as he scopes out the enemy, but he stays his composure long enough to ensure Jane’s safety and comfort beneath the growing storm clouds. For all she grins and blushes at him now, she will see him in an entirely new light once he has regained his power.

 Thor tears through the guards and flimsy walls with equal ease. The mortals ought to be glad that he is not at full strength, for if he can best them in this weakened form then as a god he could accidentally have broken their necks through lack of attention.

 The sight of Mjolnir calls to him with the lure of a fulfilled promise. Thor readies himself for glory and clasps the handle. It does not respond. He tugs. Nothing. With a frown,

Thor heaves with both hands until he is breathless and aching. He doesn’t understand why the hammer does not recognise his worthiness as it always has before. Why – unless he is no longer worthy? Unless he has disgraced himself so irrevocably that Mjolnir does not recognise him?

 The sky breaks open. Its rain is a stranger on Thor’s bare skin. He falls backwards into the mud, away from Mjolnir, away from his failures, and roars into the night.

 He is dragged away and pushed into a small room. The lights are too bright and the chair is too hard, and it distantly registers in Thor that this is a humiliating procedure. He does not care. Humiliation is something only those with pride suffer from, and Thor has been forcibly humbled.

 He thinks he knows desolation, and then Loki appears to him. His brother’s soft tones deliver dreadful news: their father is dead; their mother has rejected him; his quiet and sensitive little brother must assume the pressures of ruling; all of this is Thor’s fault. _All of this is his fault_. He has ruined and even ended lives with his brash recklessness. He has harmed the people he loves, and he cannot even make amends for it.

 It strips away the layers he has smothered himself in for so many centuries. He is a god without might, a prince without a kingdom, a son without a father. The things he defines himself by have been torn from him, and with them his future. Thor had always known exactly what was expected of him and was eager to comply, for it was a truly great fate which lay before him. Now, there is no certainty left to him but the knowledge that everything has changed.

 Loki bids him farewell. Thor wants to embrace him, to plead with him, to have his brother by his side and have everything right with the world once again. Yet he can no longer be selfish. Loki is needed in the home Thor opened to war, and so he lets his little brother go, his belated _goodbye_ addressed to an empty room.

 Thor does not leave the compound in a blaze of glory. He leaves mortal, bereaved, under the alias of another, and in desperate need of the drink Erik Selvig buys him an hour later in the local tavern. No one swaps tales of battle in this tavern, and not once does a song break out. It adds to his sense of loss.

 Erik orders another drink for them both, which Thor gladly accepts. He can be stubborn and hot-headed but he has no patience for prolonged brooding. Acceptance settles on him like an ill-fitting cloak he supposes he will one day grow into. He has never been as good at adapting to circumstances as Loki, but then he has never been in a situation where he has no other choice. He listens to Erik’s wise words and tries to see his stretch of pathless future as a blessing.

 Thor must still possess the tolerance of an Asgardian ( _of all the things_ , he thinks with bleak amusement) for the drinks do not affect him as they do his drinking companion. He finally hears the songs he has been waiting for all night in the tavern, although Erik’s slurred choices are not quite the retellings of epic and bloody quests that Thor is used to.

 Jane is taken aback by the state of her mentor. Thor, in turn, is nonplussed at her tiny living quarters. He hides his reaction, caught up in the pleasant awkwardness of Jane trying to make the space more presentable. She does not seem particularly house-proud, and so Thor flatters himself into thinking that she might be trying to impress him. He smiles to think that his opinion should matter to one such as Jane.

 They sit together on a roof beneath the stars, huddling before an open fire as Jane describes what constellations are visible. For the first time in recent memory, Thor is content to sit and listen rather than interject with tales of his own bravery and might. He has always been drawn to passion, although he encounters fervour for battle more than scholarly pursuits. Still, Jane is as enthusiastic in her stargazing as Asgard’s warriors are with their swordplay. Thor thinks she might fling herself into his arms when he returns her notebook to her. He admits to himself that he would not mind if she did.

 He sketches out Yggdrasil, wishing he had paid more attention in his childhood lessons so that he could tell Jane everything she wished to know. He wants to feed the light in her eyes so that it never goes out, for she is at her most beautiful when she learns. Later, when Jane has fallen asleep, Thor watches her with a soft smile, thinking that if he is truly trapped on Midgard then he should like to stay by her side.

 The next day brings with it both joy and turmoil. Thor rejoices to see his Asgardian friends once again but he cannot understand the news they bring him. His father lives and his mother does not detest him. It seems the only thing Loki was truthful about was his new status as king. As his old friends and new friends mingle over hot drinks ( _Coffee_ , Darcy says, _is a great equaliser_ ) Thor tries to make sense of the situation.

 Loki lies. Thor has always known this. But Loki was never supposed to lie to _him_ , and certainly not about such grave matters. He wishes he understood the change in his brother, for Loki’s actions go far beyond the mischief he usually revels in. Thor checks the rage building inside him, for he is beginning to understand that Mjolnir did not reject him overnight. He must have accumulated years’, perhaps decades’ worth of acts and behaviours which now deem him unworthy. There are times he has been callous, he realises now, perhaps especially to Loki.

 Yet Thor does not realise how deep his brother’s loathing runs until the first building is crushed under the weight of the Destroyer.

 “The _hell_ is that?” Darcy screeches as they run into the street.

 Sif shoots a dark look at Thor, who nods. The Destroyer can only be controlled by Asgard’s king, meaning that Loki is purposefully directing it towards rampage and mayhem, and eventually Thor’s death. Thor sets about helping the townspeople to safety, all the while forming a plan in the back of his mind. It has the kind of detached rationality about it that would have made his brother proud. A choice between saving one man’s life compared to saving the lives, homes and businesses of an entire town is no choice at all.

 Since he became acquainted with Åsa and loved many of her incarnations which followed, Thor thinks about death with far more regularity than he would admit. He does not wish for it, but nor does he fear it; his only stipulation is that his demise should occur through something meaningful. He had often assumed that he would fall in battle in a blaze of glory, a feat which would be immortalised through songs which Asgardians ten thousand years from now would still raise their tankards to. Instead, he walks towards the Destroyer – armourless, weaponless, anonymous – and prepares to die to prevent further bloodshed. _A worthy cause to die for_ , he thinks, glancing over his shoulder for one final look at his friends. At Jane. In another life, he would have grown to love her.

 Thor entreats his brother to spare the townspeople and offers one final apology which he hopes covers his many trespasses. For a moment, it seems as though Loki hesitates. Then Thor sees an arm swinging towards him and feels the agony of bones caving in. He flies backwards, already slipping into a sleep he knows he will never wake from, and lands in the dust some hundred feet away.

 Through the pain, there is relief. He has done it. The people are safe. With a weeping Jane Foster crouched beside him, Thor closes his eyes and awaits death.  
 However, irony has often been a staple of the gods. The act which should have stripped everything from Thor instead restores him fully, and it is with a renewed sense of vigour that he destroys the Destroyer (dealing out irony of his own) and returns to his small group.

 They offer him their cheers and congratulations, but Jane is silent and staring at his new attire. Thor has never been self-conscious, but something perilously close to doubt ripples through him. He cuts a fearsome figure, but surely Jane cannot be intimidated? He makes to reassure her but she speaks first.

 “Is this how you usually look?” she asks, and Thor realises that her shock is through appreciation rather than fear.

 “More or less,” he replies, soothed.

 She laughs in stunned delight. “It’s a good look!”

 Thor wants to laugh along with her, and perhaps he shall once this mess is sorted through. For now though, he takes as much time as he can spend with her before returning to whatever it is that Loki schemes. They fly to the Bifrost landing site and prepare themselves for farewell.

 Thor looks down at the mortal he has come to care for and loathes the thought of never seeing her again. There is a pause as their words run dry and they simply look at each other, wondering what to do next. Thor hesitates. His kisses mean nothing. He has given them away freely and without care for centuries. For Jane, he would show due respect.  Jane has other ideas. She pulls away her hand from where he had placed a kiss, winds her arm around his neck and pulls his lips down on hers.  She kisses with the same passion she affords in other aspects of her life, and it is with great reluctance that Thor pulls away. She shouldn’t have kissed him like that, he thinks with a smile, for now he has no choice but to come back to her.

 His levity does not last long. Thor returns to an Asgard which has changed in his three day absence into the home of a brother who hates him. When they meet in their father’s resting chamber, there is a frenzied brightness in Loki’s eyes as he speaks his lies and declares his intentions to eradicate Jotunheim. Trying to understand Loki’s gaps in logic proves to be a mistake; if Thor had been paying more attention, he would not have been blasted through a wall and thus lost sight of his unhinged little brother.

 Thor shakes himself off with the ease of a god and flies to the Observatory with panic urging him onwards. He will help Loki combat whatever madness has stricken him, but first he must stop him.

 The Bifrost has already been activated by the time Thor comes to a stop. He stares at the energy building and branching out, looking for all the worlds like frozen lightning. He has never seen such a thing before. Heimdall’s warning about leaving the Bifrost trained on one place for too long rings through Thor’s memory. Unless he stops Loki, decimation lies in store for an entire race. 

 “You can’t stop it.”

 The warning, spoken in cold tones from atop Heimdall’s platform, snatches Thor’s focus and trains it on his brother. He holds Loki’s gaze, almost mesmerised with horror, as Loki spits venom and nonsensical justifications. Loki _hates_ him, Thor realises with what feels like a stab to the gut. The younger prince has been pushed beyond mere anger and into something far more treacherous. His face is an ill-constructed mask of convulsing nerves which threatens to break at the seams. Thor falters at the sight of it.

 Loki jumps from the platform and sends Thor crashing to the floor with a sweep of their father’s staff.

 Thor struggles to his feet, momentarily stunned. Though he grips Mjolnir, he calls, “I will not fight you, brother!”

 “I’m not your brother,” Loki says in a single, frightening moment of clarity. “I never was.”

 It was a jibe exchanged during childhood arguments, and Thor takes no notice of it now. He sends a desperate look to the growing power of the Bifrost and wishes he knew how to stop it.

 “Loki, this is madness,” he says, pleading to a sanity he is no longer certain exists in his brother.

 “Is it madness?” The words are rough enough to tear at Loki’s throat. “Is it? Madness is repeating the same actions and expecting different results. Is that why I always sought her out?”

 Thor frowns at this sudden turn in topic. He is too unsure of his footing to keep up. “Loki, I –”

 “Oh but it was you, this time, wasn’t it?” Loki interrupts. His upper lip twitches. “ _You_ sought her out.”

 Thor’s fingers tighten around Mjolnir’s handle. “I sought no one out. I was banished, dropped with no sense of direction.”

 Loki’s grin is without a trace of humour. “Then it must have been the Allfather’s latest display of infinite wisdom. How kind of him to leave you with a friend.” He laughs, although it sounds more like a pained pant, when he sees Thor’s confusion. “Did you not know, _brother_? Did you not guess? Even through the eyes of the Destroyer, I recognised her. Did she not ask you of the stars, as she has done for a millennia?”

 Thor lowers his gaze as comprehension lands. The Norns have played a cruel trick. He should not believe his brother in his time of madness, but hadn’t he himself noticed Jane’s similarity to Åsa, if only in passing? His mind draws connections between the two women that only become clear with hindsight. Yet how can it be possible? Of all the women in the realm, how could he have found the one he had once cherished?

 Thor shakes his head and levels an accusation at Loki. “You lie.”

 “Not about this.”

  It’s the sheen of betrayal in his hateful gaze that convinces Thor of his brother’s truthfulness. The implications force a silence upon Thor. He will lose Jane, just as he lost all the others.

 “How long did it take this time, to make her fall in love with you?” Loki snarls. “Three days, was it? Impressive. But then, maybe she has become more easily won in these last few decades. Maybe, when we are finished here, I’ll pay her a visit myself!”

 He lunges forward and strikes Thor across the face with the tip of Gungnir. Thor winces at the pain but stands his ground.

 “I doubt she’ll mind,” Loki continues in that same soft hiss, unaware of the tears slipping down his face, “besotted with you though she is. She may never have been mine alone, but neither has she been solely yours.”

 There is madness in his widened eyes and trembling grip. Thor looks at his brother in deep, wounded confusion. If he could find his voice, Thor would beg him to stop this.

 “She looked at you over the centuries – you, the Mighty Thor – and she _worshipped_ you, and even then it took the _barest effort_ to take her to my bed!”

 The words are an ugly insult to the happiness which time has glossed Thor’s memories with. He reacts to the pain in the best way he knows how, and with a bellow of anger the fight begins. Loki strikes, in word and deed, fighting to draw blood.

 In the sparking light of the Bifrost’s energy, the brothers turn on one another. Thor holds back, for he is not willing to harm his brother even now, but he puts too much effort into a misaimed dive and sends himself and Loki hurtling through the Observatory walls and onto the bridge.

 Though he slams down with great force, Thor recovers quickly. He sees the beam of the Bifrost focused across the universe and, although it pains him to the point of physical ache, realises what he must do. With Loki still labouring to his feet far behind him, Thor mutters an apology to Jane and then batters his hammer down onto the bridge. The blows are swift and strong. Fissures branch out at his feet, turning into cracks which grow deeper and deeper with every hit.

 Loki is shouting behind him but Thor is too focused on his task to pay attention. Every swing of the hammer is accompanied by a groan of effort until light begins to bleed through the bridge’s wounds. Thor should take it as a sign to stop but he is determined, and in this determination he only squints against the brightness and carries on.

 When the energy contained in the bridge explodes, Thor is forced backwards off his feet. He is blind and deaf in the resulting shockwaves, and reaches out for purchase and for Loki. His warrior’s mind is quick to shift into the urge to protect and be protected but he flies through the air with no understanding of direction. Over the screaming in his ears, he hears the low groan of the Observatory sliding into the Void.

 The world rights itself just in time for Thor to realise that he is falling downwards with Loki lower still. He grabs Gungnir, relieved to see Loki gripping the other end, and narrowly misses the shards of the broken bridge as he plummets over its edge. A hand grabs his leg. His father, he knows without looking back.

 Thor stares down into the depths of the universe, his heart pounding in fear to see his little brother so close to the Void. He cannot pull Loki up, lest the movement unbalance his father and send all three of them toppling over, but nor will he let go of the staff until he and Loki are back on the safety of the bridge.

 “I could have done it, Father!” Loki cries, all trace of his earlier dark threats vanished from his tone. He looks past Thor with desperation in his eyes. “I could have done it! For you! For all of us!”

 Thor wants to nod, to agree, to wait until this moment is a distant memory before castigating his little brother as he deserves. Their father is here, and he will save his sons. All they need to do is wait.

 Instead, Thor hears a soft, “No, Loki.”

 He sees confusion and hurt flit through Loki’s eyes before they settle into a calm nothingness. His own eyes dart towards Loki’s steadily loosening grip on Gungnir, and he has barely cried out a plea before Loki lets go.

 Thor clasps the now weightless staff as he watches Loki fall into the Void. He screams until his throat is raw and does not stop until long after the dark speck which was once his brother has been swallowed by the universe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the last chapter followed an adapted "Thor", this chapter follows an adapted "The Avengers". Lots of gratitude going out to vimeo user Loki Odinson for their video splicing Thor/The Avengers/The Dark World together from Loki's point of view, it gave me a very quick way of transcribing most of the dialogue found in this chapter. The video is called "Loki: Brother of Thor" and I recommend it.  
> Thank you for your feedback, I can't tell you how excited I am to write the next few chapters. I couldn't resist steaming ahead, and so there's quite a bit of Loki and Jane interaction already written. But, patience. Enjoy this chapter first!

 For the first few nights after Loki’s death, Thor does not sleep. Every time he closes his eyes he sees his brother falling into the Void with chilling acceptance smoothing his features. The vision laughs at the lie Thor tells himself that Loki’s fingers slipped, that his death was an accident, that he had not willingly chosen to die rather than return to his friends and family.

 Learning of his brother’s true heritage does not lull Thor into an easier sleep. He does not care at all that Loki is – was – from Jotunheim; Thor loves him no less, for the brotherly ties between them, which even death has not severed, are untested by something so inconsequential as different blood.

 What keeps Thor awake are memories. The times they fought imaginary Frost Giants as boys now take on a darker meaning, and Thor can only guess at how that darker meaning must have weighed on Loki once he discovered the truth. _How monstrous Frost Giants are! How ugly! How bumbling and uncivilised and only good for testing Asgardian weaponry on their thick hides!_ Thor would rather have his lips sewn shut than for Loki to assume that the insults could be applied to him.

 There are days when Thor cannot recall the exact pitch of Loki’s voice, the cadence of his laughter, the flat tones of his wit, and these days terrify him. They remind him more keenly than ever that he is to spend the rest of his long, long life without the one he loves the most. Loki will never meet Thor’s wife, his children, or his grandchildren, and they in turn will only know of Loki through tales.

 (Thor will not tell them of his brother’s final days, nor will he mention his own failings as a brother. His descendants will love Loki as he does.)

 When these days of forgetfulness come, Thor enters his brother’s chambers with a flagon of the spiced wine Loki had always favoured. Thor had never particularly liked it himself, preferring more traditional mead or ale, but now he chases after any connection to his lost brother that he can find. He sits at Loki’s desk and punishes himself with the bittersweet taste.

 There are journals in Loki’s bedchamber, stacks of them, but Thor is too afraid to read their contents. He wants to think that Loki succumbed to madness the way one succumbs to a blade through the heart: quickly, and without any say in the matter. To think that Loki’s fate was decades or even centuries in the making means that there must have been signs or cries for help that Thor, in his infinite selfishness, had ignored.

 Thor sits, and drinks, and thinks of a thousand different ways he could have saved his brother.

*

 Even with the Observatory gone, Heimdall stands at the edges of the jagged bridge and continues his watch. Thor visits him frequently and asks after Jane Foster. He will not let the complicated relationship she shared with the Odinsons in her past lives dictate what she means to him now; she is as changed as Thor himself.

 Thor does not look into the Void but nor does he deliberately avoid its sight. He will not give it power over him by allowing himself to fear it, particularly as he is so new to the potency of true terror. In battles past, he had always masked fear with adrenaline and bloodlust. Now, blinking away images of his brother falling further away from him, he finds that there is nothing to mask the aftertaste of true, helpless horror.

 To know that Jane thinks of him soothes Thor. He has lost much, but he has not lost her or the faith she has in him. Even if it takes a century, he will see her again. Of course, by that point she will have ceased being Jane Foster. The sheer complicated mess of it all is an added weight on Thor’s mind. To continue to see her only courts heartache, for death has her marked down, but Thor cannot imagine stepping away from her forever. What he feels for Jane is different than anything he has felt for her past lives, most likely because of the change he underwent while on Midgard. She reminds him of the man he wants to be, the kind of man who she would deserve and be proud to call hers. Thor thinks he might love her for it.

 Month after month, Thor walks to the edge of the Void where he lost his past, and inquires about his future.

*

 One bright Asgardian morning, just over a year after Loki fell, Heimdall travels to the palace. The decision causes a great murmur of unease to the few who know of it, particularly in Thor himself. He has never seen the guardian anywhere other than his post, and so the news he carries with him must be grave indeed. Odin sits on his throne, Thor stands beside his mother, and each of them tense as though ready for battle.

 “Speak.”

 The command rings cold and clear from the throne. Heimdall rises from the bow he has dropped into and looks up. His usual impassivity is touched by a caution which does nothing to ease the tension in the air.

 “Loki lives.”

 The words hang unclaimed for a moment before a half-sob rushes from Frigga’s lips. Thor lifts an arm to embrace her on instinct, although his thoughts are tripping over themselves in their rush to be realised.

 Loki is alive.

 Loki is _alive_.

 His mother beams through her tears, while Odin slumps down in what Thor assumes to be overwhelming emotion. Thor himself grins and barks out a laugh which echoes around the chamber. His joy fades as Heimdall delivers the rest of the news. Loki, stealing the Tesseract. Loki, enslaving mortals’ minds to do his bidding. Loki, planning on leading an invasion and subjugating Midgard.

 The Norns have given Loki back, but it also seems like they have taken him away. Thor does not recognise the description of these deeds as belonging to his brother, but then he has (forcibly) forgotten the state of lunacy Loki was in before his fall. It seems that time and distance have done nothing to calm the second prince’s madness.

 Frigga takes Thor’s face in her hands and looks up at him. Though there are tears in her eyes, there is also steel.

 “Bring him home,” she says, and Thor nods.

 Despite everything, a tiny seed of happiness that his brother is not lost forever takes root.

*

 Thor does not wish to think of what conjuring enough dark energy to send him to Midgard must do to his father. It’s a heavy drain on top of Odin’s already weary state; since Loki’s fall, the Allfather had been succumbing to the Odinsleep with increasing regularity to seemingly little effect. Thor vows his father’s efforts will not be in vain, and the sky around him rumbles in agreement.

 The dark energy, tied temporarily to Loki, lands Thor onto the top of a swiftly moving aircraft. He crouches low and manipulates the storm around him into easing his way into the vehicle. A single glance is spared for the small group gathered inside the craft, and then Thor’s eyes land on Loki. Thor keeps his heart separate from his head; he is not here to fight – if he was, this vehicle would no longer be in the air – but all of his instincts are alert as though he was entering battle.

 What looks like sentient metal in the form of a man advances on Thor, who shoves him away with barely any effort. He drags Loki from his seat by the scruff of his neck, ripping away the petty restraints, and takes a second to just look at him. His little brother, alive. His little brother, alive after months of allowing his family to grieve and all the while plotting an attack on a minor, defenceless planet. Anger thrums through Thor, tightening his grip as Mjolnir pulls him and Loki into the cold night sky.

 The storm rages around them. Thor does not bother to keep it in check, instead hoping that his anger will be released through the lightning strikes and crashing thunder so that he might have some semblance of calm when addressing his brother. It’s too much to hope for; the force of the storm stirs his fury until he all but throws Loki down onto a flat mountainside. The rage he had been trying to suppress pounds through his veins, deafening him to anything other than Loki’s quiet, mocking laughter.

 “I missed you, too,” Loki says, and Thor thinks he might scream from the wrongness of it all.

 He drags his brother up from the ground and clamps a hand around the back of his neck. It’s an echo of the affectionate stance they had taken many times in the past, back when Thor’s grip was accompanied by loud laughter and camaraderie.

 “I thought you dead,” he says. A year’s worth of grief cracks his angry tone.

 Loki is unmoved. “Did you mourn?”

 Thor falters at the accusation in his eyes. Does Loki not understand the hole he left in Asgard when he fell? Can he not picture their mother, who occasionally forgets to hide her tearstained cheeks after hours spent locked away in private grief? Does he remember nothing of the people who love him?

 “We all did,” Thor says with a frown. “Our father –”

 “ _Your_ father,” Loki corrects. He shoves Thor away and Thor, confused and hurt, lets him. “He did tell you my true parentage, did he not?”

 Thor does not care. No one cares, as far as he is aware. No one but Loki. He knows better than to voice these thoughts, for surely he is missing something. How can Loki be so furious about rejection when there are only open arms offered to him?

 “We were raised together,” Thor says instead, watching his brother walk away from him with building frustration. “We played together, we fought _together_. Do you remember none of that?”

 “I remember a shadow,” Loki shoots back, “living in the shade of your greatness. You blocked my view of the light in Asgard, and then followed me to Midgard to steal it from me once again.”

 Thor does not understand. “The Tesseract –”

 “I don’t speak of the Tesseract.”

 The mood shifts with those quiet, hard words. Thor had not wanted to mention Jane Foster, in case he drew Loki’s ire towards her, but she is an inescapable topic between the brothers. If Loki needs reassurance – _if_ , for Thor has no idea what his brother currently needs – then he will offer it.

 “Åsa loved you.”

 “But she _chose_ you. I was little more than a distraction, meant to warm her bed while she waited for you to return.” The venom in Loki’s stare melts away. It leaves behind a cold and glittering expression, remnants of the madness he had displayed when Thor had seen him last. “But it no longer matters. I mean to rule her, and her kind, as why should I not?”

 Thor shakes his head. “You threaten and think yourself above those you would have as subjects. A throne would suit you ill.”

 “I’ve seen worlds you’ve never known about!” Loki stalks past him, back up the mountainside so that he might snarl down at his brother like a wounded dog. “I have grown, _Odin’s son_ , in my exile. I have seen the true power of the Tesseract, and when I wield it –”

 “Who showed you this power?” Thor interrupts. Unease gnaws at him to think that his little brother’s wandering sanity would be manipulated. “Who controls the would-be king?”

 “I am a king!”

 “Not here!” Thor grabs Loki’s arms as though he could shake some sense into him. “You give up the Tesseract! You give up this poisonous dream.” A hand finds its instinctual path to the back of his brother’s neck as despair seeps into Thor’s anger. “You come home.”

 It’s more of a plea than a demand. _Stop this, and let everything go back to the way it was. We can be happy again_. Uncertainty softens Loki’s eyes as he stares back at his brother, and for a precious moment Thor has Loki back. Then Loki smiles, all teeth and no substance, and Thor can see his brother retreating into his mask.

 “I don’t have it.”

 From there, things go downhill at an impressively alarming rate. It speaks volumes that getting knocked off the top of a mountain is far from the worst thing to happen to Thor that day. As he battles those foolish enough to challenge him, he keeps one eye on Loki. His brother has perched on the mountainside and watches the proceedings with a relaxed smirk. Thor would not put it past him to conjure a cushion and a bowl of grapes, and truly make a show of his ease.

 Loki still has not moved by the time Thor and his new allies reach an uneasy truce. He allows himself to be taken back to the air vehicle (the Quinjet, as the man in metal calls it) and does not speak another word. Although Thor keeps his eyes fixed on him, his brother does not even glance in his direction. When the Quinjet arrives at what looks to be a huge airborne fortress, Thor watches in deep suspicion as guards flock around Loki and lead him away. As a mortal, Thor had fought and defeated more guards than currently accompany his brother, and he is under no illusion that Loki could not escape with ease if he wished to. So then why does he not wish to?

 The question continues to plague him until distraction comes in the form of being assured that Jane is safe. She has been sent somewhere far from here, close to where, Thor realises with a pang, Åsa had lived and died. As much as Thor wishes he could see her, he knows it’s for the best that she is not present. He doubts Loki would harm her, but then again he does not know his brother in his current state. The reveal that Loki has taken Erik Selvig is far from encouraging, and only pushes Thor into remembering that Loki is the enemy now.

 (He isn’t. Thor cannot see his brother as such, regardless of his words and actions.)

 It pains Thor that his new teammates only know Loki as the man he has become. Thor tries and fails to defend him, as there is no justifying mass murder outside of the context of war.

  _A man cannot be judged on a mere three days of his life_ , he wants to tell them as they sit around and condemn Loki.

 But then, Thor himself was judged on three days. His relationship with Jane and his allegiance to Earth are both based on who Thor is now rather than the man he once was. He changed swiftly and irrevocably, so perhaps Loki –

  _No._ Thor wrenches himself from his melancholy. He will not entertain the thought that his brother is lost to him forever.

 Considering Thor was expecting trouble the moment Loki boarded the Helicarrier, he is unprepared for the attack when it’s launched against them. Rather than brash and bloody, it’s an insidious thing, brought about through the kind of wily machinations his brother excels in. The reminder to stop underestimating Loki only ever comes once Thor is already caught in a trap.

 There are no positives to this situation. People will be harmed, people will die, and this isn’t even the extent of Loki’s schemes. Thor knows this, and yet he allows himself a tiny rush of freedom in battling the green beast which only minutes ago had been the nervous Banner. Finally, there is someone on Midgard against whom he does not have to hold back. He pushes all of his anger and frustration into subduing the monster and feels the familiar joy he always finds in combat. It’s over more quickly than he would have liked, and not even by his own hand. The Helicarrier is already falling from the sky, but Banner will fall that little bit faster.

 Thor sprints to the room where Loki is being held. As he sees Loki exit the cage as though his presence there was a mere inconvenience, panic spurs him through the doorway and up to his brother, who crouches in a defensive position. Thor doesn’t understand what has happened until he’s sprawled on the cage floor with the doors closing swiftly behind him. He jumps to his feet, furious at the trick that has been played, and pivots around to see Loki surveying him with something between disapproval and amusement.

 “Are you ever not going to fall for that?”

 Thor strikes at the glass but even Mjolnir’s might causes only a small crack. With a metallic clunk, some unknown procedure is set into place. Both Thor and Loki freeze, waiting to see what will happen, but it appears to be only a warning. Thor does not dare another attempt to break the glass and can only watch as Loki strolls over to a set of complicated controls.

 Loki takes his time perusing the buttons. A heavy thud breaks Thor from the plans he was trying to create. Phil, Son of Coul – _no,_ Thor thinks absently, _the others call him Coulson_ – steps over a now-unconscious guard and aims a heavy piece of weaponry at Loki.

 “Move away, please.”

 Loki complies with the kind of cautious grace which settles trepidation in Thor’s stomach. His wary eyes flit between Loki and Coulson, although his fear is not for his brother. He wants to tell Coulson to run, for Thor cannot protect him, but he will not risk distracting the man while he faces a dangerous enemy. He wants to remind Loki that the mortal poses no threat, and there is no need to kill him when simply stunning or rendering him unconscious would do, but he has a terrible feeling that doing so would only be more incentive for Loki to land a killing blow.

 Death is coming for Coulson, Thor knows this, and yet he still shouts out when the man is impaled. The tip of the Chitauri spear bursts through Coulson’s chest, painted a crimson which shines all the brighter beneath the industrial lights. Thor bangs against his prison with a clenched fist and watches Coulson, his wide eyes glassy with shock, slide down the closest wall.

 There is no hate in Loki’s eyes as he returns to the control panel. There is not even anger. In the moments before his return to Midgard, Thor had expected a spitting madman akin to the one he had faced in the Observatory, but it seems that Loki has gone from feeling too much to cutting himself off from feeling anything.

 “Brother, stop this,” Thor says. His voice shakes in anger but there is a newfound edge of desperation also. The idea of Loki being unreachable is beginning to seem very real. “You have never harboured ill will towards Midgard before.”

 “Midgard has been inconsequential until now.”

 There is an easy air to his words as he looks over the buttons displayed in front of him. He hovers a finger over different buttons and switches like a child offered a vast range of sweet treats. Panic steals into Thor’s consciousness. He cannot help the mortals if he has been expelled from their presence.

 “What would Jane think,” he calls to his brother, “if she could see you now?”

 Loki’s hand pauses in its descent. “She would think nothing,” he says quietly. “She doesn’t know who I am.” Another pause, and then he regains himself with a cold smile. “Ah, but that is soon to change. You think to hide her from me, as though I have not known her precise whereabouts for every moment of the last thousand years.”

 Thor shakes his head. “She cannot love you if she is hiding in fear.”

 Loki shrugs, acknowledging the point. “She may cower along with the rest of humanity now but she will know me again, and when she does I will teach her to stand tall.”

  _Spoken with the casual tones of one arranging an afternoon walk_. Thor has lost this round, and now, understanding his brother’s intention, he moves into the middle of the cage to try and prepare for what is to come.

 “After all the research we did on her immortality, I think it’s time we examine our own,” Loki says. His eyes lift to Thor’s. Though there is a cordial smile on his lips, his gaze is hard. “You don’t mind being the test subject, do you?”

 He presses the button, and Thor falls.

*

 The next time the sons of Odin meet, it is in the midst of battle. Atop Stark’s tower, they brawl as though they have not sparred together for a thousand years; there are cheap shots and misaimed attacks, as well as the ever-present anger in both brothers which lends the fight a fervent desire to inflict pain. Thor holds back from seriously injuring his brother, yet his restraint fails when Loki shoots down the aircraft carrying Agents Barton and Romanoff. Thor releases Mjolnir in order to ram his knuckles into Loki’s face repeatedly, the skin-to-skin contact giving the violence a new dimension of anger and betrayal. Let Loki understand how furious Thor is, that his little brother has led them all to such destruction.

 “Look at this!” he demands, grabbing Mjolnir once again and angling it beneath Loki’s chin as he grips him by the shoulder. “Look around you! You think this madness will end with your rule?”

 Loki looks. Loki sees. And for a second, comprehension flickers in Loki’s eyes at the horror he has wrought. “It’s too late,” he says, sounding as though he seeks to convince himself more than Thor. “It’s too late to stop it.”

 “No.” If Thor truly believed that, he would be fighting alongside his allies rather than trying, again, to force sense into his brother. “We can. Together.”

 Together was how they had done things, for better or for worse, for centuries. Thor knows his brother remembers this, he can see it in his eyes and the tears that prick within them, and knows that their bond can overcome whatever madness has afflicted Loki’s mind. Loki falters, and Thor smiles for he knows that –

 A dagger plunges into Thor’s side. He hisses through his teeth at the pain and shock of it. Mjolnir clunks back to the ground as his fingers slacken, and he is not far behind it. He rights himself before he can fall completely and straightens up in time to hear his brother’s scoffed, “Sentiment.”

 The word is not as derisive as Loki intended it to be, for he blinks and a tear rolls down his cheek, but the rejection is the same as if he had screamed it. Thor has once again failed to reach his brother.

 The fight begins anew. Thor lifts Loki and then slams him back down so that the glass floor shatters around them. Loki takes less than a second to recover before pitching himself sideways off the building. He lands on a passing Chitauri ship with nary a stumble, and flies away without looking back.

 Thor wrenches the dagger from his side and eyes his bloodied fingers in distaste. Something has broken in Thor that he does not know how to fix, and the wrongness of it settles heavily onto his bones as though he drags around a corpse with him. Loki is the key to fixing the damage he inflicted, but Thor does not expect aid from him when they are at war. The next time he meets his brother, he will not underestimate him.   

 Less than thirty minutes later, Loki lies broken and defeated on the floor of Stark’s home. He manages a smile and a glib comment, and for a second Thor _hates_ him. He has killed hundreds, endangered thousands, broken Thor’s trust in him, and none of that seems to have made the slightest impact. Their mother, who sits waiting in her chambers in Asgard, will be presented with this hollow mockery of her lost son. Loki has taken the very worst aspects of himself and exaggerated them into unrecognizability.

 The hatred fades until, standing in a public place amid the newly-christened Avengers, Thor can only look upon his brother with resigned sadness. It’s Loki who hates now, suffusing his expression with the vitriol his gagged mouth cannot spew. He takes the handle of the Tesseract when Thor offers it, knowing that to refuse would only invite the added humiliation of having his hand forced. The weight of Thor’s disappointment does not seem to affect him at all.

 Thor nods to his companions and then activates the Tesseract, wondering as he does when he will next see Midgard. As the realm around him fades, he fixes Loki with a stare and silently promises that he will do his utmost to ensure that Loki never steps foot near Midgard or Jane Foster again.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kicking things up another notch. Thank you so much for your feedback, hope you enjoy the chapter!

 Since the Battle of New York, Thor merchandise has been released. Jane isn’t sure how to feel about that, as she’s never dated a man with his own line of protein shakes before, but Darcy finds it hilarious. She has bought at least one of everything emblazoned with Thor’s face on it, although draws the line once she finds out about the God of Thunder sex toys.

 “Doesn’t SHIELD have some kind of copyright?” Darcy asks, slamming her laptop closed to escape this most recent horror. “The rest of the Avengers have managed to block anything too crazy from being associated with them.”

 “Yeah, but they’re _around_ to block it,” Jane says, trying not to sound bitter. “Thor has no idea his name and image are being used like this.”

 Jane would tell her himself but, well, she hasn’t seen him in almost two years. He probably wouldn’t be able to find her again even if he wanted to; the lab in Puente Antiguo has been closed up for months now, ever since Jane established London as her new base of operations.

 “He’ll find out sooner or later,” Jane continues, although it’s really more of a theory than a confident statement. “I mean, I don’t know exactly what happened with Loki but I know Thor took him back to Asgard after New York, and that’s a mess that isn’t clearing itself up overnight.”

 Erik does not speak of his time under Loki’s control, and Jane and Darcy – despite their curiosity – don’t ask him to. They have learned to quickly change the TV channel if there are any news reports or stories featuring grainy images of the would-be conqueror of Earth. Whenever Erik’s in town and staying at Jane’s, she has to pretend she doesn’t hear the shouting nightmares which wrench him from sleep.

 The atmosphere has taken a depressing turn. Darcy clicks her tongue and then re-opens her laptop.

 “Darcy!”

 “What? I’m just scoping out what to get you for Christmas.”

 “That isn’t funny.” Jane wants to scold further but curiosity is overtaking her. She’s hardly well-versed in sex toys, having stuck with one brand of vibrator since she was a teenager, but there’s something both hilarious and illicit at the thought of anything Thor-themed. She hesitates, and then swivels Darcy’s laptop around. “Let me see.” She reads from the screen, raising an eyebrow at the description. “They use the word ‘hammer’ a lot. I guess it does kind of lend itself…”

 “I don’t think they care about originality when they have a literal god as their spokesman. Unknowingly or not.” Darcy stands up to pour the coffee that’s just brewed. Jane has her well-trained. “Please let me be there when you tell Thor about this, by the way. Oh, and I already have like a hundred ‘hammer’ jokes of my own prepared for when you guys…you know.”

 “Have sex?”

 “Solidify inter-dimensional relations.”

 “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

 “Just the poli-sci majors.”

 Jane grins and accepts the offered coffee mug with gratitude. Darcy is still acting like Thor will be back any day now, and though Jane loves her for it, she herself is less convinced. She completely gets why Thor didn’t contact her the last time he was on Earth (psychopathic brother playing out his war games definitely trumps visiting your mortal girlfriend) but months have passed since New York. He obviously has a way to Jane’s realm, so why does he not use it to keep his promise to her?

 Time passes and summer shifts into fall. There’s slightly more rain, but apart from that Jane can’t really tell the difference between London’s seasons. She stands in front of her stove and checks on the progress of her soup (homemade, take _that_ ninth grade home economics), looking up when she hears Darcy’s key turn in the lock.

 “Hey Darcy,” she calls out as her friend shrugs out of her coat and hangs it up.

 “So,” Darcy begins without preamble, “I was on the dog and bone, and you would not Adam and Eve the guy I clocked walking up the apples and pears. Definitely warranted a second butcher’s hook.”

 Jane blinks.

 Blinks again.

 Frowns.

 “Are you having an aneurysm?” she asks finally. “Is that what’s happening here?”

 “It’s Cockney rhyming slang!” Darcy grins, and reaches into her purse to produce a small book. “I found this on sale with all the translations in it.”

 Jane feels a burst of weary affection for the only girl in the city who would find a book like that useful. It won’t stop her from speaking her mind, though.

 “I haven’t heard one person speak like that since we’ve been here,” she says, turning back to stir her soup. “I mean, there’s Crazy Joe on the corner of my favourite coffee place, but it’s kind of par for the course with him.”

 Darcy is undeterred. “I thought we could have our own secret language! I use it to insult people to their faces, you use it to tell me about all the dates you’re not going on…you know, girl stuff.”

 For all of her previous support for Jane’s relationship with Thor, Darcy has been hinting, if not outright stating, that it’s time for Jane to move on. In theory, Jane is all for it. She’s never been the type to pine over a man (unaffordable telescopes, yes. Conventions too far away for her to attend, yes. Men, no.) and her ongoing infatuation is beginning to annoy her. Yet she still cares for Thor as though he never left, and she can’t just turn off feelings like that.

 Darcy pouts at Jane’s silence, but softens her tone. “I’m just sad to think that you’re all on your Jack Jones.”

 Jane thinks on this. “Bones?”

 “Alone.”

 “Oh. I don’t think that’s right, grammatically speaking.”

 “I don’t think _you’re_ right, grammatically speaking,” Darcy grumbles. “But I’m serious. You’re young, you’re hot, and as long as you don’t talk science all night, you’re totally not boring. You should get back out there.” Jane turns around to object, but Darcy has warmed to the idea she’s formulating. “It doesn’t even have to be in London! We can get the Eurostar into Paris for a weekend away. Take in the sights, visit some galleries, try and find somewhere non-expensive to eat.”

 “There’s a coffee shop on the Quai de l'École,” Jane offers. “Café de l'Ecole. Guy called Manoury runs it.”

 “Huh. I didn’t know you’ve been to Paris.”

 She hasn’t.

 As Darcy opens her laptop and types in Jane’s suggestion, Jane frowns to herself and tries to remember where she got that information from. She must have read about it somewhere.

 “Manoury doesn’t run it anymore,” Darcy informs her a few moments later.

 “Since when?”

 “Since about three hundred years ago.” Darcy glances up over the rim of her glasses. “See, this is what I’m talking about when I say you need to get out more.”

  _What?_

 “Oh," Jane says, trying to tamper her confusion. "I must have watched a documentary on it.”

 She doesn’t remember doing so, but then she _has_ been exhausted lately. If she had watched something before going to bed, it was possible that the information had seeped into her subconscious and left her feeling confused between dreams and reality.

 She voices this theory to Darcy, who shrugs.

 “I did that once. Fell out with my best friend in junior high for a week because her dream-self was a bitch.”

 Jane laughs and tries to ignore her unease. She feels as though she remembers the Café de l’Ecole – the thick, heady smell of coffee, the dim interior, even Manoury’s wrinkled smile – from personal experience. It’s impossible, of course. A product of her overworked mind. She pushes the thought of Paris out of her mind entirely and returns to her soup.

*

 Despite the knowledge that she should let Thor go, Jane finds herself distracted from everyday life by smiling at the memories of the gentle words she exchanged with him. She plays them over in her mind before slowly coming to the realisation that these snippets of conversation are not things that occurred in Puente Antiguo. She remembers saying them, and remembers directing them at Thor, yet they speak of an intimacy and devotion that the two did not share. Jane cares for Thor, probably more deeply than she ought to, but she is far from in love with him, or he with her.

 Jane would assume she had mistaken dreams for reality again except for how real the recollections seem. They don’t just occur with Thor; Jane thinks back on one or two conversations shared with a man she has never even met, whose voice shares Thor’s accent but not his booming tone. She cannot place the man, or the voice, except for a certainty that she has not imagined him. She’s perfectly happy to put it all down to loneliness rather than any other, darker meaning. Her overactive imagination is giving her comfort while she comes to terms with Thor’s rejection-by-absence.

 The theory makes sense until the day that it doesn’t.

 It’s a winter’s morning, still dark when Jane gets up, and the spike of cold in the air brings forth a craving for a particular taste. She can’t name the dish she wants, but she knows it will bring her warmth and comfort. Better still, she knows the ingredients she needs and adds them to her grocery list, where their rarely-written names lie among more common items like milk and Jaffa Cakes. Jane braves the cold and gathers the vegetables, spices, and coconut milk she needs without sparing a thought to the oddness of the situation. Once returned to her apartment, she prepares and then cooks on instinct without using timers or a recipe book.

 Only when she’s done does she take a step back to survey her kitchen and wonder what the hell happened. Jane Foster, who once managed to screw up making cereal (not enough attention, way too much milk), has created a meal worthy of the many Indian restaurants scattered about London. The air is thick with the tang of spices she can almost taste, beckoning her for just one mouthful. She digs a spoon into the pan, raises it to her lips and takes a tentative bite. The dish tastes wonderful, just as she remembered it, but she cannot swallow more than a spoonful without her uneasy stomach wanting to reject it. She has no idea what she’s just made, is certain she’s never tried it before despite recognising the taste, and yet somehow she knew its intricate cooking process as though she had done it all her life.

 Has she been afflicted by some kind of memory loss?

 Jane puts the food into containers to reheat later – _no point wasting it_ , she thinks with a scientist’s practicality – and, as she cleans the pans, forces herself to remember as much of her life as she can. She even dwells on particularly painful memories, like the death of her father, Donald Blake’s callous way of breaking up with her, and the mockery of the scientific community she so aspired to be a part of. There are no gaps that she can identify. She forgets to eat, sometimes, but she has always been that way. Research takes precedence. 

 When Darcy returns, Jane interrupts her marvelling at the food to ask for her assistance.

 “Have I…have you noticed that I’ve been forgetting things lately?”

 Darcy takes a moment to consider. “Uh, no more than usual. You’ve always been kind of spacey when it comes to space.”

 Jane is not soothed. She could deal with the memories of conversations, for they do no real harm, but if she’s acting things out then there could be a cause for concern. What if

she suddenly remembers how to juggle knives or wrestle tigers? Even as Jane frowns at herself for the fanciful suggestions, the principle remains the same. She must find out what’s happening to her before anything dangerous occurs.

 Jane plunges into research mode like never before. Coffee suppliers of the world give praise. Darcy, tasked with keeping Jane both alive and functioning, does not. Jane cannot find any history of Alzheimer’s on either side of her family, and the same goes for any mental disorders affecting the memory. Her preliminary google search “remembering things that haven’t happened” is next to useless; she puts little stock into precognition, and even if she did, the things she remembers have no place in the future.

 She puts every effort into trying to understand what’s happening to her, only for each attempt to prove fruitless. Darcy’s suggestion of having an MRI scan is shot down far more harshly than it deserves to be, but Jane refuses to even entertain the notion of a foreign entity in her brain. Her mind is her most powerful attribute and the thought of its corruption is devastating.

 At the end of one particularly long night, she considers the possibility that magic is at fault. The notion is quickly dismissed; to what purpose would someone curse her? Thor has not visited her beyond those three short days in New Mexico, so clearly harming her in an attempt to get to him would be pointless. Loki had some kind of mind-control sceptre but from what little Jane has been able to glean from Erik, their experiences do not match up. She isn’t being compelled to do anything sinister, and even if she was, the fact remains that she is not important enough to Thor to be used as blackmail material.

 The knowledge does not hurt as it once might have. Once Jane has full control over her mind and memories, she might go back to wondering if she will ever see Thor again, but for now she is too firmly in the grips of this mystery. Twice already today, she has had to stop and think whether the friend she wants to get in touch with even exists. She remembers places she has never been, people she has never met, conversations she has never held, and it terrifies her. At night she curls up in bed, huddling under the covers and counting on them to muffle her frightened sobs. 

*

 “Your mortal suffers,” Heimdall tells Thor during the prince’s next visit.

 Thor stops in his idle walk around the new Observatory and tenses. “How so?”

 “I believe the boundaries in her mind are wearing thin,” Heimdall says without inflection. “Her past lives are bleeding into one another.”

 Thor curses the day Loki ever tried to save Åsa, for it has caused her nothing but pain and misery since. “So she remembers all of what transpired?”

 Heimdall shakes his head. “She receives fragments, for now.”

 “But they make her suffer?”

 The guardian has never shed a tear as far as Thor is aware, and he is not about to begin weeping for a mortal. Still, his usual measured and even tone drops in solemnity as he holds Thor’s gaze. “The onslaught of knowledge spanning a thousand years is too much for her to take. Her mind is not meant to carry such a burden.”

 There is so much about Jane that is not meant to be. Thor should have known that it would catch up with her sooner or later. He closes his eyes for a moment. “What will happen to her?” 

 “I can only speculate.”

 Thor’s temper begins to fray. “Then what do you speculate?”

 Heimdall is unruffled. “Overall, I would assume that this is perhaps a sign that the magic of Idunn’s apple has run its course, and if so then this life cycle is the mortal’s last.”

 Thor resumes his pacing as he considers Heimdall’s words. There is grief to be found in them, certainly, but also a macabre sense of hope. A thousand years of lives totalling thirty years, lives over before they have had a chance to begin, could come to an end. Jane could be free from her early death sentence, although she would have to die to achieve it.

 (She would be eternally safe from Loki, too, although Thor feels a distant reluctance to discredit his brother so. Though he wants to believe Loki would never hurt Åsa or her incarnations, he no longer knows or trusts his brother. At least Jane would escape from the horrors Loki might visit upon her in the future.)

 A familiar protective surge pulses through Thor, but he forces himself to stop and think. He cannot protect Jane every hour of every day, as evidenced by these last few months spent fighting in various realms to restore peace. He had not even known of her suffering. Rather than dwell in guilt, Thor looks up at Heimdall, considering.

 “If the magic leaves Jane before she dies, will her lifespan be that of any other mortal?”

 “This is a matter without precedent,” Heimdall says, his tone revealing nothing. Thor is about to voice his frustrations until the guardian continues, “However, I would theorise that the loss of the sustaining magic would bring about instant death.”

 Thor nods slowly. “And until then?”

 Heimdall pauses before answering. Thor can see the universe reflected in his golden eyes, and wonders at the sheer amount of pain he must witness every second of his life. There is tragedy in every corner of the galaxy.

 “Based on her reactions to the few memories she has already received,” Heimdall says, “a total convergence of recollections will drive her to madness. If she does indeed meet a permanent end, her final years will be highly unpleasant.”

 Thor turns away as though examining the Observatory walls will hide his distress from the all-seeing Heimdall. Another mind splintered under the weight of madness. How unfair it is, Thor thinks, that this should happen to such sharp minds. How unfair, that he should lose another person he cares about to a demon he cannot defeat.

 A new determination steals over him. Although it would pain him to lose her, he would be willing to let Jane Foster find true peace after so many centuries of lives half-lived. However, he will not allow her to suffer for something which had been inflicted upon her without choice.

 “No.”

 Heimdall shifts behind him. “No?”

 “No,” Thor repeats, moving to stare out into the Void beyond the Observatory. His stance is strong, his jaw is set. He is preparing to march into a battle whose best possible outcome is the death of the woman he cares for. “This will not stand. There is magic on Asgard, and static though we may be, it has grown and changed since we last tried to help. My mother is powerful enough to make a difference, I am sure of it.”

 “It is not your mother’s magic that runs through Jane Foster’s veins.”

 Far away, in the royal chambers in the palace, Mjolnir hums in response to the spike in Thor’s temper. The meaning behind Heimdall’s veiled words has him turning sharply to the guardian.

 “I will not have Loki anywhere near Jane,” he warns.

 “Just as I do not advise it,” Heimdall says calmly. If he were anyone else, he would hold up his hands in a placating gesture. “I merely tell you that magic is individual to its user, and undoing what has been cast cannot be accomplished by anyone else. Bringing your mortal to Asgard would be futile.”

 Thor softens his glare. He will not be angry at Heimdall for delivering news, regardless of how grim it is. He turns back to the stars as a decision fixes itself onto his determination.

 “I will see her.” 

*

 Jane is slumped over her tiny dining table, head buried in her folded arms, when a burst of energy from the balcony shifts the light patterns around her. Jane’s heart thuds before she can calm herself down. She lifts her head and turns towards what she knows logically cannot be the Bifrost, as Thor has no reason to visit her. It’s therefore disconcerting to see the God of Thunder, dressed in armour that makes him appear larger and more intimidating than ever, standing among the potted plants and ceramic dwarves that litter her balcony.

 Jane stands, although she hangs back. Have her memories progressed into full-blown hallucinations? Had she wanted to see Thor again so badly that her mind decided _to hell with reality_ and obliged? Thor has no reason to visit her. She repeats the mantra, and then sidesteps the table and chairs to slowly makes her way to the balcony door. She unlocks it, her eyes never leaving Thor’s face, and feels the cold rush of London’s December roll over her as she steps outside.

 Jane’s memories – the ones she is certain actually belong to her – have done Thor an injustice. She had more or less remembered his physical attractiveness, but she had forgotten the aura of power that surrounds him. His beauty and might make for an intoxicating urge to stand closer and vie for his attention. Jane does indeed take a step towards him, although she holds her wits about her.

 Thor smiles at her, and it melts away the previously taut lines of fear across his features. “Jane,” he greets warmly. “I –”

 Jane slaps him across the face, watching closely for his reaction. His cheek is warm ( _real_ ) underneath her palm and he turns to look at her in surprise. Of all things, it’s the piercing blue of his eyes that convince Jane he is really here.

 Thor is _here_.

 And he’s staring at her like she’s lost her mind.

 (Which, _ha_.)

 “Sorry,” she says, feeling awkward. “Things have been kind of weird for me lately.”

 Thor’s expression falls. “Yes, I have heard. It’s why I have returned.”

 His words stir a familiar anger within Jane. “Yeah, there’s a thought,” she says, scowling up at him. _Damn, he’s tall_. “Where were you? You said you were coming back!”

 “I know,” Thor says, bowing his head in penitence, “but the Bifrost was destroyed. The Nine Realms erupted into chaos; wars were raging, marauders were pillaging…I had to put an end to the slaughter.”

  _Alright,_ Jane thinks, _so it beats “I lost your number.”_

 She purses her lips. “As excuses go, it’s not terrible.”

 Thor smiles at her faux-graciousness. There’s genuine happiness in his eyes, and although Jane can’t understand why, she feels the months of absence and the pain they caused fade away. Thor reaches out to cup her cheek in his palm. Jane resists closing her eyes as he brushes a strand of hair away with his thumb.

 “Oh, I really hope this is real,” she murmurs, and then tilts her head upwards to kiss him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a throwaway reference to a British TV show at the beginning of this chapter. Don't worry if you don't understand it, it's included purely for my own amusement at imagining Thor and Jeremy Kyle existing in the same universe. Thank you for your feedback, enjoy the chapter!

 Jane pulls away from the kiss with a slight smile. Her heart thuds happily in her chest at this reunion with Thor, although she can’t shut off the part of her mind warning her that he is here for a reason.

 “Do you want to come in for a coffee?” she asks, and then wonders as an after-thought if that invitation has the same connotations on Asgard as it does on Earth. “Or you could try tea. We’re in a country kind of famous for it.”

 “I have missed the taste of coffee,” Thor says with a chuckle. “Although I hope your cups are sturdy.”

 “No smashing,” Jane warns, but she’s grinning. For a few moments she can pretend that everything is normal and that Thor is here on a casual _no mysterious danger, just wanted to see you_ visit. “Come on in.”

 Darcy, who had been holed up in her bedroom, now sits in front of the television. She glances up as the balcony door opens.

 “Hey, Thor,” she says, as casually as though he had only gone to the shop for milk. “Want to watch _Jeremy Kyle_?”

 Thor looks at Jane, who nods. “Go on, it’ll be a cultural experience. I’ll make us coffee. Darcy, you want anything?”

 “I’m good, thanks.”

 Jane busies herself with the kettle as the daytime talk show blares in the background. The old sofa groans under Thor’s weight, and as Jane steals a glance back she has to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing. He’s so _large_ and incongruous against the faded floral upholstery.

 “This man is angry,” Thor comments after a few moments, his eyes fixed on the television.

 Darcy nods. “Yeah.”

 “He delivers advice in a very loud manner.”

 “Yep. It’s kind of his thing. You should stick around for the lie detector test results, it gets pretty tense.”

 Thor looks at her, interest written across his face. “How are these lies detected?”

 “You get hooked up to a machine that registers changes in your body and then you’re asked a bunch of questions,” Darcy tells him. “If your heartbeat speeds up when you’re answering a question, the machine picks up on it and tells everyone that you’re lying.”

 “The machine speaks?”

 “Uh, no, it’s more of a…hey, why don’t we let Jane explain this? She’s science lady.”

 Jane sets down two mugs on the coffee table between the sofa and the television. “You pretty much summed it up.”

 Well, not really, but Jane isn’t about to waste time explaining the intricacies of lie detectors now that she finally has Thor back.

 “Thank you, Jane.” Thor reaches for his coffee. Jane tries not to notice how tiny the mug looks wrapped in his hands. “There are some things I would like to discuss with you.”

 As if on cue, Darcy turns off the television, stands, and gestures towards the front door. “So, I have to go be somewhere else for a couple of hours.”

While Thor busies himself with his coffee, Darcy taps her head and mouths _Hammer jokes_. Jane shoos her away. She doesn’t care what inappropriate jokes her friend has stored in her brain, Darcy will not have the chance to use them just yet. Unless gloominess is Asgardian foreplay, intimacy is not in the cards for Jane.

 With a waggle of her eyebrows, Darcy leaves the apartment. Jane reminds herself to thoroughly embarrass Darcy in front of the next guy she brings home.

 “Heimdall tells me that you have been in some distress,” Thor says the moment they are alone.

 Jane’s really going to have to have a word about this apparent constant watch, but for now she just nods. “Yeah, I’ve been having…I’m remembering memories that aren’t mine, except they _are_ mine, they just didn’t happen to me. The inside of my head is just as confusing as that sentence.”

 Thor doesn’t laugh. He puts his coffee mug back down on the table in order to take Jane’s hands in his. Jane’s stomach drops. She knows this pose. This is the pose she was in when she was told of her father’s death, of her grandmother’s cancer, of her childhood pet passing away. This pose means death.

 “Do you know what’s wrong with me?” Her voice comes out as a whisper.

 “I do.” His hands are tight around hers. “Jane, what do you know of past lives?”

 Whatever Jane was expecting, it sure the hell wasn’t that.

 “What?”

 “Past lives. Previous incarnations of yourself.” When Jane continues to stare, Thor takes it upon himself to explain. “I’m not sure how to translate it into Midgardian science, but one of the prevailing theories on Asgard is that the essence which gives us life cannot be destroyed, merely transferred.”

 Jane nods. She knows this. The law of the conservation of energy is one of the founding principles of physics. She knows this, she understands this, this is safe ground.

 “For instance,” Thor continues, snatching her safe ground from beneath her feet, “if a warrior dies in battle then his or her essence is transferred to Valhalla, where it lives in glory forever.”

 Jane nods her understanding as though this is a rational discussion they’re having. When Thor struggles to find a place to launch into his explanation, Jane bites out, “Just say it.”

 “Over one thousand years ago, you lived in the North of this realm,” Thor says, which wasn’t where Jane was expecting him to go with that, but alright. “Your name was Åsa, and one night you called upon my brother to prevent a marriage which you did not want.”

 “Your brother?” Jane doesn’t know why she fixes on this point, but for some reason it strikes her as the least likely aspect of the explanation. “Loki?”

 “Yes. The two of you struck up a friendship which spanned many years. I came to Midgard to see where my brother was disappearing to,” here Thor smiles slightly, “and I met you, and I understood.”

 Jane tries to pick out the lies in his words or his eyes, but there isn’t a hint of teasing in his expression. If she hadn’t been suffering from an onslaught of displaced memories then she would have burst out laughing at Thor’s attempts to trick her. She tries to make sense of what he’s telling her.

 “So, you – we’ve met before?”

 “Yes.” He shifts in his seat. Jane absently worries about the sharp edges of his armour against the fabric of the sofa. “One day, when we came to visit you, you were very ill. Dying, in fact. I was prepared to say my final farewell, but Loki was determined to save you. He gave you an apple from Asgard, imbued with vitality and strength, and also added his own magic to it. However, it was too late to save you.”

 “I ate the apple and then I died.” Jane can’t bring herself to phrase it as a question. Her next words, however, are deeply sceptical. “How do you know Loki didn’t poison the apple?”

 Thor shakes his head. “He cared very deeply for you. When he failed to save you, he was distraught.”

 Jane still doesn’t buy it. Loki made his disregard for mortals very clear during his brief time in New York.

 “Some years later, Loki discovered that though your body perished, your essence lived on in another. He theorised that his magic and the existing magic in the apple fused to both grant and subvert their intended purposes.”

 Jane takes her hands from Thor’s grip (ignoring how she can only tug herself away once Thor realises what she means to do) and raises them in a _stop_ gesture. Thor waits as she gathers her thoughts and takes several large gulps of coffee, even though they rest uneasily in her stomach.

 “Subvert their intended purposes,” Jane repeats once she is prepared to return to this absurdity. “What does that mean?”

 “You have the lifespan of an Asgardian, but you cannot live it during a single lifetime, as we can.”

 Right.

 Gods, aliens, super soldiers, Hulks.

 Why not reincarnation?

 ( _Because it’s impossible_ , Jane’s mind insists.)

 It does explain a lot, though.

 Except for the parts with Loki. They’re getting locked away until Jane is more capable of dealing with them.

 “So the things I’m remembering are my past lives?” she asks, just to clarify.

 “Some of them, yes.”

 Thor seems relieved that Jane has understood so quickly, although there is a wariness about him that reminds Jane that something potentially dangerous is happening to her. Jane decides to fully commit to this theory until she can prove otherwise.

 “Then what’s changed?” she asks. “Why am I remembering everything now?”

 “Heimdall suggests that the magic you have within you is fading.”

 Jane considers this. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing? I mean, once it’s gone I can live out a normal life, right?”

 “Possibly.” His hesitation tells Jane everything she needs to know. Thor, noticing the way her face pales, adds, “The problem lies within the memories you are reclaiming. I fear that they may break down the barriers of your mind.”

 Jane stares at him in quietly growing horror. “I only have a handful of extra memories right now and they’re already making me question myself. What will happen to me when I have a thousand years’ worth of them?”

 “We won’t have to find out,” Thor vows, taking her hands again. “I mean to take you to Asgard, Jane, where healers and magic users can decide the best way to free you from this.”

 There is such determination in him that, for a moment, Jane believes everything will be fine. He will wade into battle for her and emerge victorious. Her rational mind interrupts with its doubts, only to be swiftly silenced by a rush of _Asgard! Space! Bifrost! New constellations! Cure!_

 Thor looks over to the balcony doors. “I suggest we leave now, if you are amenable.”

 “Okay.” Although everything seems like it’s happening through a haze, Jane has enough awareness to look down at her flannel shirt. “Can I change first?” 

*

 Jane leaves Darcy a note on the kitchen table which simply reads _Gone to Asgard. Will be back._ It’s woefully inadequate but it’s the best Jane can do with the flurry of other thoughts competing for attention in her mind. She tries to soothe her fears – she knows what’s wrong with her now, and is on the way to get it fixed – but there are forces beyond her control at play.

 She puts the pen away and takes what she hopes isn’t a last look around her apartment. With an arm wrapped around her waist, Thor guides Jane to the balcony and calls up to Heimdall. Jane braces herself, as though hurtling at breakneck speeds through space is something she could ever prepare herself for.

 A tugging heaves her upwards, through a tunnel of bright lights and a great roaring sound. Jane wants to scream through the sheer exhilaration of it all but she can barely draw breath. She settles for a laugh which gets lost in the vacuum.

 It’s over far too quickly. She grins at Thor as she stumbles into the place he previously described as the Observatory. Her heart pounds, her head throbs, every nerve feels alive with sensation.

 “We have _got_ to do that again.” 

*  
  
 Deep in Asgard’s dungeons, Loki catches the small cup he has been throwing into the air. He moves to toss it upwards again but then pauses with a slight frown on his face.

 Something is different.

 He sits up in a swift, easy movement and tilts his head as though listening to the air.

 Jane is here.

 His head aches with her presence.

 With a snarl, he hurls the cup against the wall of his prison.  
  
*

 Despite her eagerness to see everything Asgard has to offer, Thor escorts Jane straight to Eir’s personal healing room. It’s here where the healer sees to the royal family’s ailments and here, Thor thinks with fondness, that he spent many an hour in his childhood having countless sparring wounds tended to.

 “She is remarkably similar in structure to an Asgardian,” Eir notes as she manipulates the soul forge around Jane. “That will be the influence of Idunn’s apple.”

 The healer’s lips had thinned into near non-existence when Thor explained the situation to her, although she made no vocal comment on it and certainly did not refuse to examine Jane. For all she disapproved, she could not dismiss the command of her future King.

 Jane’s eyes dart across the manifestations around her. Thor is certain that she works very hard to restrain herself from reaching out and waving a hand around. Still, she can’t help but comment as Eir tends to her ministrations.

 “That’s a quantum field generator, isn’t it?”

 Eir does not pause in examining the replication of Jane’s essence, but there is a tightness in her voice as she replies, “It’s a soul forge.”

 Thor frowns at the healer, but Jane is not so easily dismissed. “Does a soul forge transfer molecular energy from one place to another?”

 Here, Eir pauses and looks down at Jane in surprise. “Yes.”

 Jane nods, pleased with herself, and with a smile whispers, “Quantum field generator,” to Thor.

 A strong rush of fondness for this clever, wonderful woman has Thor smiling back. It strikes him just how much he does not want to lose her, which makes Eir’s low _hmm_ all the more worrying.

 “What is it?” Thor asks. When Eir glances at Jane, Thor holds back a frustrated sigh. “You may speak in front of Jane.”

 Eir, though reluctant, nods. “The magic of Idunn’s apple is fading. Do you see this shade? It ought to be far brighter.” The healer tugs on the replication and magnifies it until

Thor can no longer identify which part of Jane he is seeing. Within the faded colour of the soul forge are golden specks, tiny but bright. “The heart of the reincarnation process lies here, in Prince Loki’s magic.”

 “How do you know for sure?” Jane asks, frowning upwards.

 “Idunn’s magic grants longevity, not regeneration. The apple’s magic has likely been corrupted by the addition of a foreign entity.” Eir is careful not to look at Thor as she adds, “That is, Prince Loki’s magic.”

 Thor tells himself not to take offence. Jane is important here, not any potential slights on his brother’s true heritage. He doesn’t even know if Eir was trusted with the royal secret; perhaps he is becoming as sensitive to imagined slights as Loki.

 “The two strands of magic are interwoven within Lady Foster’s essence,” Eir continues. “I can only assume that this combination is the reason for such detrimental effects. Her body is young but her mind is old. The magic in her which constructs barriers between the past lives is fading, therefore the barriers are becoming weaker and more memories are seeping through.”

 Thor cares little for the theory behind Jane’s deterioration. He seeks only a cure.

 “Can we remove the foreign entity?” he asks, casting an eye on the bright sparks of Loki’s magic.

 “As you can see, the magic is scattered about in specks,” Eir says with a shake of her head. “Removing it would be akin to picking out specific pieces of sand on a beach.”

 Thor sighs. “Laborious and time-consuming.”

 “Nigh-on impossible,” Eir corrects. There is a long pause, in which she sets the soul forge back to its original state. “The magic could converge as one under the command of its master. Perhaps upon its removal, if such a thing is possible, the magic of Idunn’s apple would not be so quick to wither and the barriers between the past lives could strengthen once more.”

 There is far too much speculation at play, and worse, all these roads lead to Loki’s involvement. Thor takes Jane’s hand and hold it tightly. How can he deliver her to the one she may need protecting from? He would far rather withhold the idea of going to Loki for help and proceed searching for a solution himself, but that could risk Jane’s life if he does not find a cure in time.

 As he murmurs his gratitude to Eir and leaves to take Jane through the halls of the palace, Thor reaches his reluctant decision. Loki’s magic has caused this problem, and Loki’s magic will fix it. There is limited potential for things to go drastically wrong, Thor tells himself. Loki is locked up. Though Thor has not yet been to see him, he is certain that there can be no harm in simply inquiring if his brother has the ability to help. The worst Loki can say is ‘no’.

 (The worst he can say are the accusations and lies he repeated over and over on Midgard and then again upon their return to Asgard. Thor does not dwell on this.)

 “Where are we going?” Jane asks. She sounds out of breath, and a guilty Thor moderates his pace for her.

 “To meet my mother,” he replies. “She has heard a great many things about you.”

 “She has?” The news seems to both please and terrify Jane. “Wait, _me_ -me or past-me?”

 Thor smiles at her turn of phrase. “Both.”

 He may feel forced into seeking out Loki for help, but he will not drag Jane into his decision unnecessarily. Better that she stay with Frigga until Loki’s assistance is certain. Afterwards, they will find a way to proceed together.

 Odin is holding Court today, an ordeal which Thor really ought to be present at. His father must know of Jane’s presence by now, even if he is holding his silence on the matter. As much as Frigga is eager to meet Jane, Thor does not look forward to introducing Odin.

 They stop outside Frigga’s private rooms. Jane stares at the intricate golden inlays on the doors and bites her lip. When she looks to Thor, he sees her nervousness.

 “Do I look okay?” she asks, gesturing down at her Midgardian attire.

 She is not dressed to meet the mother of her paramour, much less a Queen, but then that isn’t what she asked. Thor smiles at her and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

 “You look beautiful,” he promises.

 With a knock and a bid for entry, Thor ushers Jane inside. Frigga stands from her low couch and directs a glance towards her handmaidens.

 “You may leave.”

 The young women file past Jane and Thor, casting curious looks towards the mortal whom they will no doubt be gossiping about the moment they’re out the door. Thor wonders if he should have made an effort to keep Jane’s presence quiet. _Well_ , he thinks, _it’s too late now_.

 As Frigga approaches them, her mask of courtesy and grace softens into something more real. She can shed the intimidating aura she wears as Queen  but her regality still shines through her every movement.

 “Jane Foster, please meet Frigga, Queen of Asgard.” Thor lowers his head in respect. “My mother.”

 “Hi,” Jane says, also bobbing her head. “Uh, hello.”

 Frigga ignores the formality in order to reach out to clasp Jane’s hands within her own. “Jane. A pleasure to meet you.” She smiles, warm and true, and it eases Jane’s nerves. “How are you finding Asgard?”

 “It’s…like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

 Jane’s smile, shy but charming, reminds Thor of his mission. His happiness at seeing Jane and Frigga together hardens into resolve. 

 “I will return shortly,” he says, giving Jane’s hand a reassuring squeeze as she stares up at him.

 “You’re not staying?” Frigga asks, arching an eyebrow.

 “No, Mother. I must attend to other matters.”

 Frigga does not press the subject, although Thor is certain she will question him on it later. It’s bad manners to leave this meeting when he is the bridge between the two women, but Thor must take his chance to visit Loki while Jane is occupied.

 His mother is offering to send for tailors to see to Jane before Thor is even across the room. He smiles and closes the door behind him. It’s a scene he wants to see played out before him many times in the future. It’s just unfortunate where the key to his future lies.

*

 Thor descends the stone steps of the prison, shrugging his cloak closer around his shoulders to combat the chill. Loki had been moved to an isolated cell some weeks previously, something which Thor is now grateful for. It will be easier to talk to his brother without other jeering prisoners surrounding them. He dismisses the guards who stand outside the small room before the cell, and braces himself for unpleasantness.

_Do this_ _for Jane._

 He pushes the lever mechanism to open the door, ignoring its ominous rumble as it slides into the wall beside him, and enters the grey stone room. The cell, standing on a plinth and lit from within by a bright light, seems unnatural in the otherwise bleak settings.

 “After all this time,” a voice rasps out, “now you come to visit me, brother.”

 Thor pauses. He has not heard that voice in months (dreams and nightmares aside) but for all its hints of familiarity, the coldness in it may as well belong to a stranger. Thor sets aside his grief for the close bond he once had with his brother and pretends that his heart has hardened alongside his determination.

 Loki rises from his bed and stalks towards the front wall of his cage. He is thinner than the last time Thor saw him, but other than that he mostly looks the same in his physical stature. There is a foreignness across his features; a mixture of haughtiness and hatred which had been present on Midgard but absent from all of Thor’s memories. It is not a welcome return. Loki lifts his chin so that he might look down on Thor all the more.

 “You bring Jane to Asgard,” he says, anger tightening the lines around his mouth and eyes where laughter had once lived. “ _Why_? Have you come to gloat? To mock?”

 Thor will not ask how Loki knows that Jane is here. He ignores the shock of foreboding it sends through him, and instead steels himself. “I need your help, brother. _Jane_ needs your help. The magic within her is –”

 “Did you know,” Loki interrupts, “that time passes differently in the Void?”

 The question, casually posed, makes Thor frown. There is a trap in Loki’s words, although as ever Thor will not know what it is until he is ensnared in it.

 “It’s true,” Loki continues in the face of Thor’s silence. “What’s more, there are many highly unsavoury characters who reside within it. The Void, and its creatures, claimed me as their own. For every moment I felt loved during my youth, I lived through a thousand lifetimes where I was offered only hatred and disgust.”

 He is exaggerating. He must be, for the alternative is too awful to contemplate. _Loki lies_ , Thor reminds himself. What was once a facet of his brother’s personality is now a warning and a safeguard.

 “I’m here to plead Jane’s case,” he says, refusing to allow even a ripple in his tone. “The magic within her is failing. Memories from all of her past incarnations are resurfacing and they are driving her to insanity.”

 A sharp glint of interest enters Loki’s eyes. The madness it lends his expression is unnerving. Thor begins to pace in front of the cell to avoid his brother’s expression.

 “I suspect that if you remove the magic you placed on her, the process would slow considerably. You have tried before, I know, but centuries have passed since then.” He glances up, but Loki is still mired in his thoughts. “I ask that you attempt to free her from her fate.”

 “ _Attempt_.” The word leaves Loki’s mouth on a breath of dark laughter. “As arrogant as ever, Odinson, in your poor estimations of me. You see, in those thousand lifetimes of desolation, I was offered knowledge beyond compare.”

 Thor stops pacing. “You can save her?”

 Loki’s smile is cold. “I can save her. But I have conditions.”

 Thor chastises himself for the hope which leapt within him. His jaw sets. “I did not come here to bargain, Loki.”

 “Of course you did.” Loki’s sneer follows Thor as he continues pacing. “You’ve become quite the martyr since your time on Midgard. I could demand your execution and you would bare your neck before I had even finished my sentence.”

 Thor will not be provoked. _For Jane_. “Tell me your conditions and I will decide if they are acceptable.”

 Loki straightens, business-like. “The complete unbinding of my magic.”

 “No.”

 “A day’s release from this cell.”

 “No.”

 “A pet.”

 Thor scoffs without humour. “I could bring you a bilgesnipe, if that would appease you.”

 “Fine, I rescind that condition. My final request is the one I expect adhered to.” Loki pauses, the glittering in his eyes suggesting he believes he has already won approval. “When you bring Jane to me, I will see her alone.”

 “Out of the question.”

 Despite Thor’s sharp tone, Loki is not at all angry. He holds the power and he knows it. It’s with something approaching joviality that he says, “Come now, Thor, did you really expect that I would be denied in this one simple request? How can I heal Jane if I cannot see her by herself?”

 “With the same level of ease, I suspect.”

 The twitch of Loki’s lips confirms Thor’s words.

  _This is useless_ , Thor thinks. Something will have to give, and it will be his ability to keep Jane as safe as possible. He turns to his brother, unwilling to place Jane into such bloodstained hands without reassurance.

 “Give me a single reason to trust you.”

 “You have no other choice.”

 Infuriated by his brother’s cold assessment, Thor means to argue. Loki interrupts by smacking a palm against the clear wall of his cell. Energy spikes out around his hand, and although Thor knows it must be causing his brother physical pain, Loki wears only a twisted snarl of anger.

 “There is your _single reason_ , Thor! What more were you expecting? You cannot trust me, as I have proven countless times, and you would be a fool to take faith in sentimental retellings of our childhood!” He removes his hand from the barrier and steps back, his mask of casual disdain at odds with the way his eyes blaze. “But take comfort in the fact that it is _you_ I seek vengeance against, not Jane. I have harmed her enough over the centuries.”

 The outburst should be reason enough for Thor to walk away and never return, but it is not his life he risks in doing so. He frowns at his brother as though it will dig the truth out of him.

 “You will cure her?”

 Loki’s smile does not reassure. “Bring her to me.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feedback. Sorry for the delay, real life interfered. Hope this chapter makes up for it, enjoy!

 Jane thanks every deity out there that Frigga is far too polite to pass comment on the idiot Jane is probably making of herself. She stares into the gilded mirror, stunned into silence by her reflection and the beautiful dress it wears. Alongside the expected darker shades of gold ( _wealth thing, or limited palette?_ Jane wonders) are softer hues of purple which form a cloak of sorts, layered to fall down to her feet. The material is light enough to move with her body, fitted without being uncomfortably clingy. She’s even been loaned metallic jewellery, although she dislikes the way the bracelets fall cold and heavy against her wrists like shackles.

 Childhood fantasies of life as a princess rush back as Jane lets the soft folds of her skirts slip through her fingers. She isn’t certain what the equivalent to this dress would be back home – maybe casual formal wear – but something tells Jane that she has never owned anything this fancy. Not that she owns it now, she reminds herself with something akin to wistfulness. And even if she did, it isn’t the kind of thing she can wear on her morning coffee run. She feels elegant and beautiful, and she regrets those years spent scoffing at the idea that clothes could have that kind of effect.

 “Thor tells me you study the stars visible from Midgard.”

 Jane turns away from the mirror with a smile. The stars are the only thing that could distract her from her newfound interest in fashion.

 “Yes,” she says. “I’m an astrophysicist.”

 “That’s quite the title. On Asgard, we simply call them stargazers.”

 “Well, it isn’t just the stars.” Jane is struck by the need to defend herself and her profession, realising how insignificant it must seem now that she’s in a realm of gods. “There’s so much out there that we – uh, mortals – don’t know about.”

 “And you want to discover it all.” Frigga’s smile is fond and indulgent. “In his youth, my son was the same.”

 Jane grins. “Really? Thor doesn’t seem the type to sit around reading.”

 “Not Thor. Loki.”

 Oh.

 Right.

 It’s weird to think that Loki has a mother who loves him. He’s supposed to be this evil, isolated figure, not someone who has a mother to tell him when he needs a haircut and shares embarrassing stories from his childhood. Does everyone on Asgard have this huge blind spot where Loki is concerned? Is he only imprisoned because it seemed like the thing to do, rather than it stemming from any actual desire to punish him? It unnerves Jane; if Loki’s attempt at subjugating Earth is not seen as terrible and wrong, then the Asgardians must think very little of mortals.

  _That isn’t true_ , Jane tells herself. _Look at Thor_.

 But then, what if Thor is the exception rather than the rule? He wasn’t exactly gracious about humans when he first fell to earth.

 “Does it make you uncomfortable to discuss Loki?” Frigga asks, watching Jane closely.

 Jane breaks from her troubled thoughts. As pleasant as Frigga has been, Jane knows that it would be very unwise to insult her son. Mass-murdering tyrannical psychopath though he is.

 “I think that the Loki you know is different than the one I’ve heard about,” Jane says slowly.

 There is a touch of sadness to Frigga’s smile. “A diplomatic answer. I wish you could remember a time when Loki was not in so much pain. You would like him, I think, as you did back then.”

 Jane can only offer a tight-lipped smile in return. Whatever association she once had with Loki, Jane does not remember it now and does not care to have it referenced as though it means anything to her. She is spared any further conversation about Loki by Thor’s arrival. He carries Mjolnir and there is a tension on his features that eases as he steps further into the room. When he sets eyes on Jane, he takes a long moment to appreciate her new attire.

 “Jane, I…you look…”

 Jane blushes, pleased with the effect. She’ll have to invest in more clothes from Thor’s culture if his admiration continues.

 “I did try to teach him manners,” Frigga says with a sigh, though there is a familiar teasing light in her eyes.

 (Jane assumes the familiarity is associated with Thor and thinks no more on it.)

 “Forgive me,” Thor says, waving away any embarrassment with a  grin. “Jane, you look beautiful.”

 “Thank you,” Jane says with a bob of her head. She smiles until her cheeks ache.

 “So beautiful that it is a shame to confine you to this room,” Thor continues, offering out an arm for her to take. “Will you walk with me?”

 Before she takes his arm, Jane turns to Frigga. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she says with another nod of her head (is she supposed to curtsey, or…?) which Frigga reciprocates.

 “Likewise, Jane Foster. We shall see each other again soon, I should think.”

 Thor kisses his mother goodbye and then leads Jane out into the hallway.

 “Where to now?” Jane asks. In truth, she’d be content to just walk around the palace for a few hours. Its opulent magnificence isn’t something she’s ever likely to encounter again.

 Thor clears his throat. “If it’s alright with you, we are to visit my brother.”

 Jane comes to an abrupt halt in the empty side hallway. Thor stops the moment she does and loosens his hold to allow her to slip her arm out of his. Jane, certain she must have misunderstood, steps away and stares at him.

 “Please tell me you have another brother tucked away somewhere.”

 Thor has the grace to look ashamed. “It has become clear that Loki is the best option available in terms of healing you. He is…knowledgeable.”

 He’s homicidal. Jane would almost rather take her chances with the dying magic inside her. Almost. Eir herself had said that only the owner of the magic could remove the corruption inside Jane.

 “Thor, I don’t know.”

 Thor drops Mjlonir to the floor, takes her hands and looks her in the eyes. He’s so earnest that Jane already finds herself swaying in favour of his idea. “Jane, you know I never would have approached Loki to help you unless I considered it our only option.”

 Jane nods, reluctant but resigned. It feels like a betrayal of sorts to receive aid from the one who has caused her loved ones pain, but she knows that refusing to allow Loki to help her will only cause herself harm in the long run. If she removes sentiment from the equation and focuses solely on rationality, she feels easier about the situation.

 “Fine,” Jane says. She makes to move but Thor’s stillness gives her pause. There’s more to say. She braces herself.

 “Loki’s condition was that you see him alone.”

  _What?_

 “You said no.” Nothing. Jane frowns. “Thor? You said no, didn’t you?”

 Thor’s jaw works in frustration. “I agreed to the condition, but know that it means nothing. If you do not wish to see Loki, we will stay away. This is entirely your choice.” His bolster fades and he sighs. “Just know that if you do decide to see him, you must see him alone.”

 It’s what Darcy would call a “dick move”. To think that Loki still has power while imprisoned is infuriating, much more so since he apparently uses that power to irritate his brother and harass innocent women.

 Jane blows out a breath of exasperation. “So when you say ‘choice’…”

 “I’m sorry, Jane. This was the only way Loki would agree to help.”

 “How do you know he _can_ help?” Jane asks, voicing the questions as they come to her. “What if he’s just lying to mess with you?”

 Thor hesitates for so long that Jane isn’t sure he’ll answer. He stalls by picking Mjolnir back up and fixing it into a loop in the side of his cloak. When he speaks, it’s in low tones of sincerity.

 “My brother once cared for you greatly. I believe that given the chance to ease your suffering, he would not pass it up.”

 Which doesn’t really answer Jane’s question – doesn’t do much at all except make her feel kind of awkward – but it seems like she’s just going to have to trust Loki. As though that isn’t the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard of.

 “I guess we should get it over with, then.” 

 The atmosphere becomes strained as the pair walk through the palace. Jane has no intention of letting Loki’s tricks come between her and Thor, although she does admit to a morbid fascination with him. In another situation (another life) she would spend hours quizzing him on his magical abilities and trying to correlate them to any scientific theories.

 “Do you visit him a lot?” she asks after a few minutes.

 Thor does not look at her. “No. I went to see him once I learned that Eir could not heal you, and that was the first time I visited him since he was incarcerated.” Although Jane doesn’t ask why, Thor apparently feels the need to explain himself. “I was fearful of the man my brother has become.”

 The words are quiet and ashamed. Jane squeezes Thor’s hand in silent gratitude that he would share it with her. He gives her a small smile in return. Jane is so lost in it that for a moment logic struggles to rear its head. Once it does, her own smile drops away.

 “He’s locked up, right? He can’t do anything.” There’s a lengthy pause in which Jane’s heart stutters in its rhythm. “Right?”

 “Physically, there is nothing Loki can do.”

 “But non-physically?”

 Thor glances at her. “He had to be moved to an isolated cell for repeatedly inciting riots among the other prisoners.”

 Jane’s confidence is fading with every step. She should probably tell Thor to stop talking before she changes her mind completely. Thor, however, is not done. He pauses beside a large pillar, out of sight of the milling guards, and beckons Jane closer.

 “Loki’s magic is contained to within his cell, so believe nothing you see in there. His true power is found in his words. He may lie –”

 “I won’t believe a word he says.”

 “– but he may also tell certain truths. Jane, I…” Thor stops and frowns, trying to gather his thoughts into coherence. “Before I came to Midgard, I was different. I was arrogant and reckless, and though I did not realise it, I could be cruel in my affections.”

 Jane would never call him cruel. Thor sees the disbelief on her face and quickly continues, “It was not intentional. My attentions were well-meant but brief, and I did not stop to consider the harm they may cause. Even with you, in your past incarnations, I never thought of the consequences. When eventually I did, my concerns were for myself. Being with you only to lose you so quickly was a strain I did not wish to put upon my heart, and so I left Midgard without the intent of ever seeing you again.”

 Jane can’t find it in herself to be upset. She still cannot reconcile the life she lives now with the ones she lived in the past; Thor did not leave _her_ , he left someone she does not know or remember.

 Worry gnaws at the lines around Thor’s mouth. “I fear that Loki will twist my past selfishness into the insinuation that I do not care for you now.”  
 Jane shakes her head. “There’s a difference between selfishness and self-preservation.” She lifts herself up on her tiptoes to give Thor a brief kiss. “I won’t listen to anything he says, I promise.”

  
*

  
  Descending the steps to Loki’s cell feels like walking towards an execution. Jane comforts herself with the knowledge that fear is a completely rational response to the situation. She’s about to come face to face with a being who would gladly see her whole kind grovelling in the dust at his feet, and she’s going to let this being close enough to heal her. She is not being weak, she is being logical.

 Fighting against this fear is a steadily rising anger that Loki thinks he can summon her and dictate his terms when it’s his damn fault she’s in this mess in the first place. One meeting and then she’ll be free of whatever curse she’s been placed under.

 Jane repeats this to herself as they stand in the chilly stone antechamber. Thor nods at the guards and then places a hand on Jane’s shoulder.

 “I’ll escort you in,” he says in a tight voice.

 Jane watches the door slide into the wall and takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright light ahead of her. She walks forward, eyes immediately finding the man in the cage ( _that ‘cage’ is nicer than any dorm I stayed in at college_ , she thinks, irrational in her tension) and comes to an uncertain halt before it.

 Loki is tall – taller than Thor, Jane thinks at first, before realising that his cell rests on a plinth with two stone steps leading up to it. It lends itself to looking down upon visitors. Not an ideal design for someone with a pre-established superiority complex. Loki’s not wearing his armour, thank God, but there’s still a graceful malice in the way he stands with his hands clasped behind his back. He has an easy way of inhabiting the space, as though his prison cell formed around him at his command and with a single word from him it would topple back down again.

 The news reports have not done him justice. The sharp angles of his face give him a cruel beauty, so different from Thor’s handsomeness and yet equally as compelling. There is a fleeting spark of recognition and attraction in Jane’s stomach which go ignored. They are relics from a life she no longer leads. As Loki watches her with a sharp and intent gaze, something flickers in his eyes. It’s gone before Jane can put a name to it, but she is reminded of Thor’s claims of past love. Jane remembers the reports of death statistics on the news, Erik’s nightmares, the grainy footage of Loki standing on the roof of a skyscraper and revelling in the mayhem he has caused, and she wonders how a man like that could love anything.

 Loki tilts his head ever so slightly to the side as though to increase his scrutiny. He has not once looked at his brother.

 “Hm.” And then, without taking his gleaming eyes off Jane, “Thor, you may leave.”

 Jane, glad of the excuse to break eye contact, turns to Thor. He scans her features for signs that he should not go. Jane, concerned that every single line of her face is pleading with him not to leave her alone, offers him a slight smile.

 “I’ll be fine.”

 Thor nods. The grim slant to his mouth shares Jane’s current _I don’t want to but I have to_ resignation. “I’ll be just outside the door.”

 Turning to leave, Thor levels Loki with a warning look. Loki, unintimidated to the point of amusement, holds his eyes. Jane takes the respite from being stared at as an opportunity to armour herself against whatever is coming.

 Once Thor has gone, Loki’s attention idles its way back to Jane. He is silent for several moments, appraising her, and then: “Asgardian dress suits you.”

 His tone, soft and appreciative, is suited to that of a lover. Jane almost shivers at the wrongness of it.

 “Alright, let’s get this straight,” she says, using her indignation to fuel her courage. “I know you think that we have some kind of shared epic history, but I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.”

 She thinks her words might anger him but Loki only smiles.  “Of course I do.”

 Jane arches an eyebrow. “Really. What’s my middle name? Where was I born? Who were my parents?”

 “Details,” Loki says, unperturbed. He still watches her with unnerving absorption. “I know _you_. I know how to make you laugh until tears roll down your cheeks. I know the smile you affect when forced to speak with someone you find intolerable. Point to anywhere on your body, and I can tell you the exact noise you make when I press my lips there.”

 His voice is quiet, insinuating, far from threatening, yet Jane shakes her head in disgust. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

 “Why not?” He flashes a grin. “You like it.”

 Jane tries to fight the flush creeping up her neck. In another circumstance, with another man, yeah, she probably would like it. But in an Asgardian dungeon with the would-be conqueror of Earth looming over her? Not so much. She debates calling Thor back in for a second before dismissing the notion. She’s dealt with creeps before and won’t admit defeat by calling for backup now.

 “I’m not here to play games,” she tells Loki, lifting her chin. “I don’t have that much time to waste.”

 “No. Well, I’d invite you in, but…”

 He flicks idly at the energy barrier between them. His finger elicits a low hum from the ripples created by the contact. Jane follows their movements, wondering to what extent the magic used on the cage can be applied to scientific terms. Though Loki seems unharmed, he avoids extended contact – perhaps prolonged touch yields a similar effect to an electric fence?

 “That said,” Loki says, a little louder than is necessary in order to draw her attention back to him, “I’m eagerly awaiting the moment Thor realises that in order to heal you, you will have to come in here or I will have to go out there. Please don’t mention it to him beforehand. The thought of seeing the look on his face is all that sustains me.”

 Jane is prepared to dismiss his speech as petty until one word strikes out at her.

 “Beforehand?” she repeats with a frown. “He’s already gone.”

 “Oh, I won’t be healing you today.”

 The words, for the light tone and polite smile they are accompanied with, cause a drop in Jane’s stomach. Is this some kind of trap? She’s half a second away from calling out to Thor before Loki continues:

 “The price of my help is your company, and I doubt you will be so willing to visit me once I have delivered my end of the deal.”

 The God of Lies doesn’t trust her. Jane would laugh at the irony, except this isn’t remotely funny and all she can manage is a splutter of indignation.

 “You can’t hold everyone else to your standards of dishonesty,” she tells him. He holds her gaze dispassionately. “Not everyone’s a liar.”

 “Of course they are.”

 There’s venom beneath that genial tone, and Jane must tell herself not to dig any deeper. At least, not until Loki has removed the curse on her. Probably not even then; she’s seen what Loki can do and she has no intention of provoking that wrath. Still, it’s infuriating to have her freedom dangled in front of her and then snatched away.

 “And if I promised to still visit you?” she asks, knowing even before her question is finished that it’s futile.

 “I’m afraid your promises mean little,” Loki says, entirely unapologetically. “How can I trust someone who must hold such a grudge against me?”

 “Which grudge would that be?” Jane snaps. Nothing is turning out like it’s supposed to, and this jackass is revelling in it. She knows she needs to calm down and not let Loki see how much he’s affecting her but she’s past the point of caring. “This cycle you’ve cursed me into? Attacking my town? Hurting Erik and Thor? Trying to take over my planet?”

 Loki shrugs. “Pick one.” He turns away from her and walks idly towards his bed. He sits on the mattress and fixes his eyes on her once again. “Just one, mind. I’d hate for you to have to recite my litany of crimes every time you feel like justifying yourself.”

 There’s mockery in his voice but also petulance, as though he finds being reminded of his sins a boring and annoying procedure. Jane scoffs and shakes her head, a hundred insults streaming through her mind. She’s in the process of _picking one_ when Loki, noticing her outrage, laughs softly.

 “By all means, Jane, get angry. That’ll endear me to your cause.”

 That does it.

 “I don’t have a cause!” Jane shouts. Her voice smacks against the walls of the dungeon “I have a messed up this situation that’s _your_ fault and _your_ job to fix!”

 Loki is on his feet and practically pressed against the barrier before Jane knows what’s happening. He looks down at her, all traces of humour wiped from his expression.

 “Those who spoke with such disrespect in my presence used to swiftly find themselves without a tongue to repeat it.”  
 Jane will not take a step back, no matter how much her heart hammers. Her mouth is dry from fear ( _illogical, he can’t harm you_ ) and it takes several moments to regain her composure. She looks back steadily, swallows once, and repeats, “Used to.”

 It isn’t exactly the right thing to say, but at least Loki has stopped his mockery and quips. There’s something about his anger, terrifying as it is, that’s simple and truthful. Jane knows where she stands once his mask of light-heartedness is stripped away.

 (Where she stands is in a whole heap of trouble, but she’ll ignore that for now.)

 Before Loki can speak, the dungeon door slides open and Thor steps in, his eyes sweeping the room in quick assessment. He’s by Jane’s side in three long strides.

 “Are you alright?” he asks, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I heard shouting.”

 Loki’s anger is now only evident in his too-bright eyes. His stance is relaxed, his expression faintly amused. “Minor lovers’ quarrel, Thor,” he says. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

 Thor does not rise to the bait. He shoots his brother a dark look and then focuses on Jane. “Is everything alright?”

 Jane feels like kind of a snitch, but to hell with it. “Loki won’t heal me.”

 Thor’s grip around Mjolnir tightens. “You gave your word, brother –”

 “I did no such thing,” Loki interrupts, bored. “And even if I had, there were no time constraints restricted upon me. I will heal Jane, out of the goodness of my heart,” (Jane holds back a very loud _ha!_ at this) “but I will do it in my own time.”

 “There’s no time for your leisure, this is urgent!”

 “I can do it urgently or I can do it right.” Loki’s eyes flick to Jane. “Unless you wish your beloved to lose _all_ of her memories?”

 Jane doesn’t know if it’s a threat or just a comment designed to rile his brother further. Thor takes it as the former, although it has the effect of the latter.

 “I am loath to do it, Loki, but if you refuse to heal Jane soon then I will find an incentive to hasten you along.”

 Loki stiffens for a moment and then spreads his arms, encompassing the cell. He leans forward, a snarl twitching his upper lip, and asks, “What more can you do to me?”

 Call it intuition, but Jane knows there’s something deeper going on here than she understands. Loki’s in prison, sure, but the cell is actually pretty nice. His furniture is the same quality and design as she saw in Frigga’s chambers, and he has books to keep him occupied. A quick glance at Thor confirms Jane’s suspicions. He is pained by his brother’s words.

 Loki breaks the silence with a short, harsh laugh. “You see? There is nothing. Everything I once had, I have lost.” He takes a breath and straightens up. “You will bring Jane here daily until such time as I see fit to heal her. I will not let her die, or suffer; on this you have my word.”

 “Loki –”

 “This is not up for discussion.” He glances at Jane, expression unreadable, and then turns back to Thor with distaste. “You may leave now. Both of you.”

 There isn’t anything to do but leave. Jane, bewildered and annoyed, takes the lead out of the dungeon. Loki’s eyes are on her back until the door slides to a close behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The editing on this is shaky at best, but I wanted to get a chapter out before I go on a mini-holiday. Forgive any errors. Thank you so much for your feedback, enjoy the chapter!

 “I don’t suppose there’s any way to force him to hurry up?” Jane asks Thor the moment they’re alone in his chambers.

 “Nothing Loki would respond to.” Thor lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Jane, I never should have approached him on this.”

 “Hey, no. If we’re playing the blame game, there’s one contender who has us both beat.” In her anger, she hadn’t realised where Thor was leading them. Now she pauses and looks around the room, her eyes resting on a bed whose sprawling decadence is unlike any she’s ever seen. Its covers are a deep burgundy to offset the mahogany headboard and four posters, and it’s sizeable enough to fit at least four people. Jane glances back to Thor. “Am I sleeping here tonight?”

 The phrase is loaded, and they both know it. Jane wonders if any of her past lives would have been bold enough to lie back on the bed and crook a finger in invitation, as she considers doing for about half a second. Even with the life-improving dress she has on, Jane would not be so bold.

 “I don’t know to what extent Midgardian courting rituals differ from the Asgardian ones,” Thor says. He has none of her awkwardness, although there’s an endearing hint of uncertainty in his smile. “Other sleeping arrangements can easily be made if you are uncomfortable.”

 Jane almost falls over herself assuring him that it’s fine. It isn’t just sex she’s interested in – although that certainly has its appeals – but the promise of intimacy and safety. Jane’s a big girl and she can handle sleeping in a bed by herself, but this thing with Loki has her more unnerved than she’d like to admit. If Thor is offering comfort, she isn’t above taking it.

 She nods her assent, and then after dinner Thor spends half the night making her really, _really_ glad she chose to stay in his chambers.

*

 For once in her life, Jane is glad that she always struggles to sleep during the first night in an unfamiliar bed. After a restless few hours, she had accepted that she wouldn’t be getting any satisfactory rest and wriggled as gently as she could out of Thor’s arms. He had stirred and mumbled something which might have been her name. Jane, heart bursting at the unexpected adorableness of a sleepy God of Thunder, shushed him gently. She slipped her dress back on, padded onto the balcony, and sat snuggled into the warmth of one of Thor’s cloaks she had snagged on her way out.

 Thor’s bedchamber is high up in the oddly shaped palace, affording her views across the equally oddly shaped architecture of the city beneath her. The world is still dim when Jane takes her seat on the balcony, and she spends the few minutes before sunrise breathing in slowly and tasting the air of an alien planet. It’s clean and pure, like the air on Earth was supposed to be before its pollution.

 She’s never had the patience for meditation before, but in Asgard’s stillness Jane finds a new awareness of herself. Her body aches slightly from the pleasant exertion of the night before, although she feels no pain. Due to Thor’s sheer muscled bulk she would have expected unintentional roughness, but his fingers were deft in ensuring she was ready for him, and when the time came he was gentle in his movements. Jane’s ensuing train of thoughts remind her why she was never suited to meditation.

 When the first sunrays cast out over the land, Jane has to shield her eyes. The golden world beams in the warm light, glittering in the rivers and streams which wind their way around the buildings and breathing new life into the realm of the gods. Jane can only watch, awed, and think on her own insignificance.

 Thor steps onto the balcony a few minutes later. He smiles to see Jane, and bends to kiss the top of her head.

 “Good morning,” he says, sitting down in the chair beside her. There’s good humour about him as he eyes the cocoon Jane has made with his garment. “You’ve stolen my cloak.”

 “I borrowed your cloak,” Jane corrects, hugging it tighter around herself. “Secretly.”

 “Ah. My mistake.”

 Jane nods, forgiving him with a smile of her own tugging at her lips. It fades as she looks back over Asgard, dazed into ineloquence. “This is…I mean, it’s…”

 “Yes,” Thor says without a trace of mockery at the words she cannot form. He surveys the land he was born to rule with pride and a wonder which is reborn with every glance. “This is still my favourite view in all the Nine Realms. Moreso, now that you’re a part of it.”

 Jane dips her head and blushes into the folds of the cloak. One day, she’ll learn to take a compliment with grace.

 “Are you hungry?” Thor asks after a few minutes of silence. “I’ll have something brought up to us.”

 Oh, for the days Thor was serving breakfast in Puente Antiguo. Jane can only now appreciate how humbling it must have been for him after a lifetime of waking up to the view that reminded you of how your family ruled the world.

 Breakfast is delivered and taken in a small sitting room just off Thor’s bedchamber. Jane sips her tea, waving off Thor’s apology over the lack of coffee, and decides she likes the taste of it. The bowl of oats and milk is much more familiar fare, as are the bread and assorted fruits. Jane tries everything except the apples.

 She doesn’t want to ruin their breakfast with talk of Loki, but her impending visit is weighing on her mind. Given Loki’s parting words the previous day, there is something she doesn’t know. Asking Thor may be uncomfortable, but Jane will take any advantage for a level playing field that she can get.

 “Yesterday,” Jane begins, drawing Thor’s attention, “Loki said that everything had already been taken from him. Was he just being dramatic, or…?”

 Thor takes his time finishing his bread roll before answering. He seems to be judging words in his mind before speaking them aloud, leaving Jane to wonder what on earth he was going to tell her.

 “There are things about Loki that you do not know,” he says at last. Jane sets her teacup down, signalling that her full attention was his. Thor sighs and launches into his tale. “This happened before I came to Earth. On what was to be the day of my coronation, Frost Giants invaded our weapons vault. They are terrible monsters – _creatures_.” The correction is swift but Thor still seems to regard it as incorrect. He settles on, “They are our enemies,” but from his frown, it still does not sit right with him. “They hail from a realm called Jotunheim. Enraged by the insult of their attack, I travelled to Jotunheim along with Loki and our friends and started conflict. It was the act which would result in my banishment.”

 Jane knows she should frown upon starting fights with monsters, and she does, but she’s also impressed at the courage or arrogance it must have taken to battle a race which even the way above-average height Asgardians called giants. She hopes she never sees one in the flesh.

 “During the fight,” Thor continues, “Loki somehow discovered his true heritage. As a baby, he was taken from Jotunheim by our father and raised as Odin’s son.”

 So he – no. Loki wasn’t a giant. He was tall, sure, but Thor was taller. Jane’s confusion must show on her face, for Thor shakes his head.

 “Loki is clad in illusion that hides his blue skin.”

 Which really only raises more questions. “Blue skin?”

 Thor nods. “And eyes the colour of blood. Fearsome beings, although Loki was a runt.” The word sits distastefully on his tongue. “After his discovery, during my banishment, he sought out our father for an explanation, only Odin was unable to provide one. He fell into Odinsleep, leaving Loki alone to deal with his newfound knowledge.”

 “What about your mother?” Jane asks, glossing over the Odinsleep comment. She would ask later.

 “Loki has always been secure in our mother’s affections." If Thor is jealous of this fact, he shows no sign. "It was the love and respect of our father he always doubted, even before finding out he was not born Asgardian.”

 Jane quashes the flickers of pity she feels. These things are explanations, not justifications.

 “By the time I returned to Asgard, Loki had changed. We fought as he utilised the Bifrost in an attempt to destroy Jotunheim, and in the fallout the bridge was destroyed and the Observatory lost. Loki tumbled over the edge, and though I held onto him, he let go and fell into the Void.”

 Jane sits in silence and tries to process what she has just heard. Loki had attempted genocide and suicide within the space of a few minutes, shifting himself from monstrous to tragic. Jane doesn’t know what to make of it, or how to apply this new knowledge to the man who sits waiting for her in the dungeons. The genocide, horrific as it is, she can totally see Loki trying. But suicide? It doesn’t make sense that someone with such a high opinion of himself would try to end his own life.

 Even so, none of that excuses what happened afterwards. Any decent person would at some point stop in the middle of attacking innocent people and think _hey, maybe I’m overreacting_. Of course, nothing about Loki is decent.

 The sound of Thor’s bedchamber door opening cuts short their talk. Thor and Jane exchange a glance before rising to their feet. In the other room, Mjolnir hums at the bottom of the bed.

 “Thor?”

 Jane doesn’t recognise the voice, but Thor sure does. Alarm flits across his expression before it settles into steely resolution. Jane waits for an explanation, but before Thor can say anything the door to their small chamber opens. An old man stands in the doorway, shorted in stature than Thor but with a heavy gravitas which the thick plates of his armour only add to. An eyepatch covers one eye. Its twin glares into the room.

 “Father,” Thor greets, wary.

  _Father?_ Oh, God. This was not how Jane wanted this meeting to go. She’s wearing yesterday’s dress and she’s pretty sure she still has sex hair. Thor moves to her side in a show of support.

 “Jane Foster, may I introduce Odin Allfa –”

 “So it’s true.” Odin's single eye rests on Jane with more distaste than Jane could have managed with a thousand eyes. Biologically linked or not, Jane can see the family resemblance between him and Loki. They each manage a level of disdain Jane had not thought possible. “You have brought a goat to a banquet table.”

 It’s the strangest insult Jane has ever received. She bristles and wonders how much of an asshole someone has to be to deliver insults through the use of metaphor.

 Thor straightens. “Father, you have no right barging in here –”

 “No right? This is _my_ realm, I have more right than anyone.” He flicks another dispassionate glance towards Jane. “If you wish to speak of things which do not belong, direct your attention to the mortal.”

 “My name is Jane Foster.”

 It isn’t an introduction so much as an act of defiance. When Odin continues to berate Thor as though there had been no interruption, Jane is torn between outrage and humiliation. She doesn’t appreciate being treated like a teenager caught sneaking her boyfriend into her bedroom. Of course, it doesn’t seem to bother Odin that Jane is here with his son, just that Jane is here at all, so she guesses that it could be worse in terms of parental disapproval.

 “Jane’s predicament is Loki’s fault,” Thor says, his voice raised in restrained anger which nonetheless shakes Jane’s bones. God of Thunder, indeed. “Her cure can be found on Asgard, I know it.”

 “I told you not to meddle with mortals!”

 Jane almost shrinks back at the force behind the reprimand. She had assumed that no one in Asgard could have more commanding presence than its Princes. It makes sense that they would have learned it from their father. Still, Thor does not back down.

 “Jane will remain on Asgard long enough to right what wrongs it put upon her.”

 Odin gives a sharp bark of laughter. “ _Asgard_ did not do this.”

 Jane wonders if father and son ever talk about Loki. It doesn’t seem the time to voice the query. Thor’s jaw tightens and he looks away, seemingly defeated for the moment. Jane steps up to the mantle.

 “I have the power of Idunn’s apple inside me,” she says. “It’s deteriorating at a rate which, compared to its longevity with Asgardian hosts, is best described as rapid. What’s happening to me will happen to you, in a few thousand years. While I’m on Asgard, you can study the effects of the deterioration, isolate the variables which stimulate healing and long-life, and work on applying them to a new type of apple which will sustain future Asgardians for even longer.”

 Odin’s stony features do not soften but nor does he order Jane’s immediate execution. So, there’s that. Finally, he turns to Thor.

 “She may stay for as long as it is mutually beneficial,” he says. “But she will not be presented in any official capacity. She will not attend feasts or other official functions, and she will be escorted at all times. She may not leave the palace.”

  _She._ It’s better than ’the mortal’, although just as impersonal. Still, it’s a victory. Jane will take what she can get.

 “Thank you,” Thor says.

 Jane only nods her gratitude, certain that further reminders of her existence will snap Odin’s already fragile tolerance.

 The moment Odin leaves, Thor turns to her. His expression is weighted with concern. “We must act quickly.”

 "To the dungeons?"

 "To the dungeons."

*

 The influx of memories has lessened since Jane has been in Asgard. She assumes it’s something to do with being in close proximity to the orchard in which Idunn’s apples are grown. Being near Loki probably doesn’t hurt either, loath as she is to admit that.

 She stands before him, debating whether to inform him of Odin’s vague deadline, but he speaks before she can come to a decision.

 “You look quite tired.” Loki’s tone is a pretence at concern. “How did you sleep, Jane?”

 Jane, who didn’t have time to find another dress and knows Loki has noticed, will not be baited. “Well enough.”

 “Yes, my brother’s sheets are renowned for their softness. Must be all the use he gets out of them.”

 The words don’t bother Jane; a thousand year old prince-slash-god having a ton of sex before he met her is hardly shocking, let alone a thousand year old prince-slash-god with Thor’s looks and charisma. Jealousy must be quite the motivating factor in Loki’s life given how often he tries to provoke it in others.

 “I’d rather we didn’t talk about Thor.”

 Loki presses his lips together in an imitation of regret. “I think it’s for the best that you find out what he’s truly like now rather than later.”

 Jane shrugs. “I think I’m getting to know him pretty well.”

 Loki’s scoff does not quite hide his annoyance. “The call of who he was for a thousand years isn’t something he can just drown out, no matter his intentions.”

 “I could say the same about you,” Jane shoots back. “Thor told me you weren’t always like this.”

 Loki’s eyes snap back to hers as his posture stiffens. Jane stares back, uncertain. Is she not supposed to mention Loki’s past? She can see why it’s a sore point for him, given the racism against Frost Giants that’s deeply ingrained into Asgardian culture, but she isn’t about to spend the next few days tiptoeing around it.

 “Yeah,” she says, uncomfortable but forging ahead anyway. “He told me everything.”

 She’s glad an energy barrier separates them, because Loki looks like he will gladly kill her. She can see in his slow, considering gaze all the methods he would use and how much he would enjoy it. He may be imprisoned but she’s the one feeling trapped and scrutinised.

  _Thor’s just outside_ , Jane reminds herself. For all the trust she places in science, the same cannot be said of whatever magic has crafted Loki’s cage.

 After a moment, Loki regains himself with a sardonic smile. “It appears I forfeited my right to privacy as well as my freedom when I was incarcerated.”

 Jane nods, still tense. “Killing people will do that.”

 “If only I had known.”

 He has a dry humour that Jane would appreciate in anyone else. Anyone else who wasn’t flippant about murdering the innocent, that was. It doesn’t cross her mind to laugh; she’s too busy learning to scan every word from his lips for potential threats, double-meanings, or outright lies.

 “I have some questions for you,” she says, testing the waters. “If you get to decide how long I’m here for, then I should get to decide how I spend this time.”

 Loki inclines his head, the beginnings of amusement sparking in his eyes. Jane has often been told she’s bossy (never “assertive”) and she forgets to tone it down in front of mightier beings who could view it as insolence.

 “Ask away,” Loki says, gesturing to her in what he must think is a benevolent manner.

 Jane braces herself. “Thor told me you fell from the Bifrost. Where did you go? What did you fall into?”

 Loki’s expression hardens and then closes off completely. Jane grits her teeth. Encountering one brick wall after another is incredibly frustrating, particularly when she has been so used to talking with Thor “open book” Odinson.

 “You told me I could ask,” she says with more than a hint of accusation.

 “I had assumed you would ask me about your past lives. Worthwhile knowledge.”

 It’s Jane’s turn to shut down. “No. I don’t want to know about that.”

 “But you must be curious,” Loki says, latching onto the topic despite Jane telling him no. She has a feeling this will be an oft-repeated conversational pattern. “A woman of science such as yourself must ache to know as much about herself and her place in the universe as she can.”

 Jane folds her arms as though to defend herself against the tone which coaxes her to believe in his words. He’s like a politician, charismatic yet untrustworthy.

 “If you won’t talk about your past, I won’t talk about mine.”

 Jane thinks it’s only fair. Loki, much to her surprise, appears to agree.

 “Very well.” As with their last meeting, he moves back to sit on the edge of his bed. “How about your more recent past, then? Tell me about the circumstances of the life you lead now.”

 Jane frowns. “Why?”

 His smile reveals nothing. “I’m curious.”

 Curious God of Mischief. That’ll end well. If Jane wants to get on his good side (or rather, less heinous side) she will have to tell him something, although she has no intention of revealing anything important. If he hadn’t already known it, Jane would even have lied about her name.

 “I’m an astrophysicist,” she says, starting with the basics. “I study the stars.”

 “Yes, I saw some of your work through Erik Selvig’s mind. Quite impressive, for –”

 “Don’t talk about Erik.”

 Loki’s lips thin at being interrupted. Jane doesn’t care. Though it pains her, she will jump through as many hoops as Loki deems necessary to grant her cure. The indignity will be worth it in the end. But she will not stand before the man who controlled her mentor without regards to the brilliance of the mind he was toying with and allow him to speak so freely of Erik.

 Hatred must radiate off her, for Loki stands and sneers down from his heightened cell. “You order me not to discuss your personal life, yet you pry so carelessly into my own.”

 “Thor volunteered that information himself,” Jane says, forgetting her own rule of keeping Thor away from conversation. It was mostly true; she certainly hadn’t expected Thor to tell her so much about Loki as he had done. “He loves you, despite everything you’ve done.” _And continue to do._ “He just wants his brother back.”

 Loki’s hands tighten around the edges of his bed, but when he speaks his tone is deceptively even. “Thor’s version of redemption would have me relegated once more to the silent and ignored second son. Why would I settle for that, now that there are few in the universe who do not know the name Loki of Asgard?”

 His eyes shine with fierce pride. He believes in his own legend, Jane realises. She shakes her head, unnerved. “All those people? They hate you.”

 “They _see_ me.” Loki lifts his chin, basking in imaginary attention. “I have the eyes of the Nine Realms trained upon me, trembling to think what I will do next.”

 A shiver runs up Jane’s spine. At full power or not, Loki’s tenuous grip on reality makes him dangerous. Her life is in the hands of someone who may or may not be mad.  
 She tries to laugh off her fear. “Yeah, you’re really inspiring terror trapped in this cell.”

 Loki’s answering laugh is a dry sound of dark amusement. “If you truly believe that I can be contained anywhere I do not wish to be, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

 Jane tries to tell herself it’s just bravado and outright lies, but those words haunt her long after she has left the confines of the dungeon.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feedback, hope you enjoy the chapter!

 During a night in which Thor is called away to some princely duty or another, Jane holes herself away in the palace’s huge Library. Rather than shy away from the guard detail she has been assigned, she uses them to her advantage to direct her to the section she needs and then to retrieve books from the higher shelves. She soon has two guards trailing behind her, their arms laden with books and the stoicism they had started the evening with worn away in favour of bemusement.

 Jane sits at a table, reaches for the nearest book, and thumbs through page after page of terrifying accounts of the brutality of Frost Giants.

 She tells herself that it’s research rather than curiosity which drives her. She has access to texts on more subjects she had even dreamed possible, so why not take full advantage of that fact to read up on the creatures she shares the universe with? That she chose a night where Thor would be absent doesn’t mean anything. That she chose her first study to be upon the race which Loki belongs to…probably means something, but nothing nefarious. Still, Jane can’t help but cast furtive glances to the guards every so often.

 After an hour of reading about massacres and cruelty, a tiny thought surfaces in Jane’s mind, wondering if Loki has a natural pre-disposition towards heinous acts because of his true nature. She shuts the thought down before it has a chance to develop. She has allowed herself to be swayed by one culture’s prejudice towards another, forgetting to keep in mind that the tomes she reads are hardly objective. Not every Frost Giant can be as vicious as its war-mongering leaders, just as not every Asgardian is as heroic as Thor. Loki’s actions are his own, as separate from his heritage as his appearance is from the illustrations in Jane’s book.

 Jane sets her reading aside and chooses another race to study, but the idea of Frost Giants still lingers in the back of her mind. She shoos it away as much as she can, particularly when Thor returns from his duties, exhausted and in need of distraction, but the image of crimson eyes and blue skin returns in full force during the next day’s meeting with Loki.

 She sits down in the armchair which has been brought in especially for her. Its amber plushness and delicate embroidered pattern look incongruous in the dank chamber, although it would not look out of place inside the actual cell. Jane settles down wordlessly, drops the parchment and writing equipment she brought with her, and examines Loki as inconspicuously as she can.

 Jane remembers that one of her first impressions of Loki was of his sharp beauty, and this still rings true in the week or so that has passed since that meeting. She would never have known of his skin’s true pigmentation unless Thor had mentioned it, for not once has the control over his appearance slipped. The magic inside him must run deep to cover his true self up so expertly. Is his magic thanks to his Frost Giant blood, Jane wonders, or was it something granted to him when Odin concealed the colour of his eyes and skin? Jane doubts magic can be so easily transferred, but then she’s far from an expert on the topic. Thor had glossed over it when he spoke of the day he gained a brother, and it isn’t something Jane wants to press.

 She’s even more reluctant to approach Loki about it, given the effort he puts into maintaining the illusion that he is Asgardian. Despite the security of the energy barrier between them and Thor’s promises that he is only on the other side of the door, Jane still fears the younger prince. It isn’t a consuming fear, and it certainly doesn’t lessen the anger she feels at being forced into their chats, but it’s the kind of absent dread felt by one who spends their life at the foot of a dormant volcano. The volcano does not necessarily interfere with everyday life but nor can its presence go ignored. It will erupt one day, and its catastrophic scale will change everything.

 “You’re staring.”

 Jane breaks from her apocalyptic reverie with a blink. “I’m thinking,” she informs him. “I stare when I think.”

 Loki, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he reclines in a chair even grander than Jane’s, allows his lips to lift for a moment. “An alarming trait.” He straightens, the shrewd look in his eyes warning of his suspicion. “What are you thinking about?”

 Jane is used to those words being spoken by another in soft tones in the middle of the night as her heartbeat steadies and her fingers unfurl from sheets. To hear Loki bastardise them irritates her enough into telling the truth.

 “Your magic.”

 His suspicion thins into annoyance. “Are you doubting my ability to heal you?”

 “I was thinking about your magic in general.” Jane pauses. “Although I do want you to talk me through the healing process sometime soon.”

 Loki acts like he didn’t hear the latter part. The tense lines of his body – lacking both Thor’s muscle and Thor’s compunction against murdering innocent people – ease, and he smiles smugly as though he has won something. “What about my magic would you like to know?”

  _Everything_ doesn’t seem like an appropriate response, although it’s the one that leaps onto Jane’s tongue. She swallows it away, unwilling to let an opportunity pass her by because she wasn’t specific enough.

 “Is it innate, or can it be learned?”

 “Both. A single spark can be coaxed into a forest fire.”

 Jane would outlaw people speaking in metaphor if she could. She hides the roll of her eyes by leaning forward to gather up her writing equipment.

 “So it’s a skill you’re born with that becomes greater with training,” she muses as she sits back up. “Like singing.”

 “Do you sing, Jane?”

 “No. Now, what –”

 “Come now, I’m certain you have a lovely singing voice.”

 Jane gives him a flat stare. If he asks her to sing, she’s leaving. Death would be preferable. Fortunately, it seems to be one of those times when he’s speaking only to annoy rather than to hatch a scheme, for his attention soon wanders.

 “Do you intend to write down everything I say?” he asks, his eyes tracing the words she has already written.

 “The relevant parts, yeah.” _Which, feel free to get back to_.

 Loki makes a soft, contemplative noise, and proceeds to speak for almost an hour while barely pausing for breath. He’s intelligent, fiercely so, but he speaks with a complexity that even Jane’s astuteness can barely keep up with. Despite Thor’s assertion that magic and science were one and the same, the disparity between the names of terms and methods means that Jane only understands roughly half of what Loki says. It isn’t a major concern; she will ask Thor for his help in translating Asgard’s terminology.

 “Bear in mind,” Loki says as he rounds up his lesson, “that there are things that even I, well over a thousand years old and considered a master of magic, still do not know.”

 There’s caution in his voice, as though he’s warning Jane against disappointment, but Jane is unperturbed. She has long since accepted that she can’t have all the answers to everything (although it certainly hasn’t stopped her from trying).

 “Thank you,” Jane says, only half-conscious of her words as she waits for the last of the ink to dry so she can fold her parchment. “That was actually helpful.”

 “You sound surprised.”

 Jane shrugs as she stands up. He hasn’t dismissed her, but Jane doesn’t want to get into the routine of being stuck with him until he decides otherwise. Any more so than she already has, that is. He lets her go without a word. 

*

 With every passing visit, it takes longer for Thor’s grim expression to fade as they leave the dungeons behind. Jane walks beside him, silent and thoughtful, as they make their way towards the gardens. For all his current anger towards his brother, Jane knows from the way Thor talks about their youth together that Thor still seems to think that in a few hundred years he and Loki will look back and laugh as they remember those few wacky months Loki went insane. Jane doesn’t know how to tell Thor that the brother he loves and the reality of what Loki has become are two different things entirely.

 The brothers occupy more of Jane’s mind than she is comfortable with. Thor’s charisma makes him the centre of every room he steps into, while Loki’s way of attracting attention seems to lie in acting too dangerous to be anything other than constantly watched. Despite his relatively benign attitude with Jane, in quiet moments there is a palpable darkness about him which warns of what will happen to one foolish enough to turn her back on him. Be it through charm or fear, Jane wishes to keep an eye on both brothers at once. 

*

_His hands are on her waist. She slaps them away, trying to stop herself from grinning as she admonishes him.  
_

_“This is serious,” she tells him, her eyes fixed on her reflection and not on the tall, handsome man behind her who wears a wicked grin of his own. “This is the only first impression I will ever get to make on the Lords and Ladies, and I will not appear to them with a single hair out of place.”  
_

_Her fingers stumble over the hairgrips inlaid with pearls – gifts from him – but the heat of him pressed against her back distracts her from her task. Her breath catches as he leans down to nuzzle the side of her neck, knowing the effect it has on her.  
_

_“That’s cheating,” she says, catching the pale glint of his eyes in the mirror as he glances up, unapologetic about his intentions.  
_

_“I rarely play fair.”  
_

_Doesn’t she know it. She turns her head to catch his lips with hers, sinking further into the kiss as his hands grip her tighter.  
_

_She’ll never get her hair perfect._

 Jane wakes with a jolt, wrenching away from Thor and almost off the side of the bed. Thor is upright before Jane can gather her thoughts. Somewhere in the darkness of the bedchamber, Mjolnir hums.

 “What is it?” Thor asks, sharp and alert.

 Jane groans, annoyed at herself for reacting so violently to what was essentially nothing. Of course, _nothing_ doesn’t generally have such a sheen of realism to it.

 “I’m fine,” she mutters, dragging herself back against the pillows and flopping against them. “It was a dream. Or, a memory.”

 Jane had looked into a mirror, seen herself as tall, blonde, and shapely, and thought nothing amiss. She had recognised another version of herself as though she saw it staring back at her every day. Worse, she had recognised Loki. _Felt_ something for him, beyond mischief and lust.

 “It could just have been a dream,” Thor suggests, gentling his voice upon seeing her distress. “Asgard is a place which triggers the imagination.”

 Jane shakes her head. The sense she gets from the flashes of her past lives falls somewhere in between dream and memory, without belonging to either one. What she sees is real, but inapplicable to her life.

 She presses the heel of her palms over her eyes to try and stop her frustration expressing itself through tears. “Being in Asgard was helping! I wasn’t supposed to be getting these damn things anymore.”

 Thor wraps an arm around her and draws her into his chest. “I wish I could help.”

 Jane is too tired for her normal platitudes. She only sighs and nods, and tries not to think of how it feels like a betrayal to huddle into Thor with memories of his brother’s hands on her body still achingly fresh. 

*

 Seeing Loki the next morning is awkward. Jane barely looks at him, unprepared for the superimposed guise of a lover who might look back. Nothing has changed between them; Past Jane’s choices of lovers is of no concern to Current Jane.

 Despite this insistence, Jane can’t quite shake the idea that she has, in the past, had sex with Loki.

 Sex.

 With Loki.

 Amid the knee-jerk disgust ( _he’s a murderer, he’s Thor’s brother, he’s an ass_ ) is a morbid curiosity. Deeper still is a part of Jane which doesn’t find the idea completely repellent. It must be a side-effect of the magic inside her, calling out to be reunited with its owner, but she still represses this part of herself as though her sanity depends on it.

 Jane can distance herself from the act itself, given that it occurred in a different body, but Loki apparently does not differentiate. If he did, he would still be in love with Jane’s very first incarnation and pay no heed to her subsequent lives. She feels more exposed than ever. Thanks to Jane’s apparent inability to change personalities as she changes bodies, Loki knows every quirk, insecurity, and – oh, God – kink that she would only ever share with someone she loves and trusts. Things she hasn’t even told Thor about…

 …in this lifetime.

 Oh, _God_.

 How much do they know? What if one of her past lives had opened the drawer marked Things To Never Tell Anyone Ever and decided, in a haze of love or lust or both, to lay bare her fantasies? Jane hopes she has been afforded enough originality over her lifetimes to at least have a varying list of turn-ons.

 “You’re different today.”

 While Loki’s words are likely meant in idle curiosity, Jane hears only an accusation. She snaps her gaze up to find Loki already staring at her, eyes narrowed in thought as though he could divine her thoughts if he only focused hard enough.

 “I’m tired.”

 Jane is a terrible liar, always has been, but she will spin a million falsehoods before admitting the truth. She tries to force down the flush she can feel crawling up her cheeks.

 “No,” Loki says slowly. “Something has changed. What is it?”

 Jane looks away. She hates herself for not thinking of something more convincing, and she hates Loki for putting her in this position. If he had stuck to his word and separated her memories like he was supposed to, she would be back in London right about now, watching the TV shows Darcy loves where everyone shouts and cheats on each other.

 A surge of homesickness for a life Jane never knew she missed hits her. It brings with it a fresh determination, which in turn steels her into looking back up at Loki.

 “I need you to heal me. Now. Take away your magic, block my memories, everything, because I –”

 “You’ve remembered something about our time together.” His delight is evident, but his smile seems to be at her discomfort rather than from any genuine happiness. “Were you the corn-grower? The baker’s assistant? The forge master’s wife? _That_ one was a slight challenge, I’ll admit, but all the sweeter in victory because of it.”

 Jane forgets to be stunned at how easily Loki guessed the source of her disquiet. The phrase _sweeter in victory_ is circling her mind, becoming louder and more obnoxious with each repetition. Sweeter in victory? She is no one’s conquest. The idea of being reduced to a mortal plaything for a god to toy with propels her out of her seat and mere inches away from the energy barrier. She glares up at Loki as he matches her closeness, all mirth drained from his features.

 “I don’t want you in my head,” Jane hisses up at him, ignoring her drumming heartbeat and the urgent warnings of her survival instinct to back away fast.

 “You must hate how I have carved out a space there.” In the face of Jane’s rage, Loki is calm. He looks down at her without pity or kindness. “I understand what it’s like. During every moment you devote to Thor, part of you is wondering what I’m doing, what I’m thinking, if I will escape or if I will keep my promises.”

 He’s both a poison and an antidote. Worse, he knows it.

 “I’m relegated to a worried thought, a fear that keeps you awake at night. I don’t mind, though,” he continues softly. “It’s the closest thing to love you can feel for me.”

 The words push Jane backwards until her legs catch the side of the armchair. She doesn’t take her eyes away from Loki.

 “This isn’t _love_ ,” Jane spits. She’s horrified by the idea. “It’s hatred.”

  _That_ breaks through his stillness. His grin is swift and sharp, more manic than anything else and vicious in his victory. He stands tall and isolated, a dark figure amid the crushing brightness of his cell.

 “As I said.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback. Sorry this chapter is late, I've had a sudden influx of real life to deal with. And finally, happy Halloween! Tell me what you dressed up as this year, or if you saw any Avengers out and about! Enjoy the chapter :)

 

_They sit on top of a mountain and gaze up at the blanket of stars above them.  
_

_The marvellous thing about having a god for a lover is that the impossible becomes laughably easy. The journey from forest floor to mountaintop takes a moment, and after a shock of thin air and breathless cold, a bubble of warmth surrounds the couple. Furs clothe the gentle slope of the rock, thick enough to banish thoughts of the cold floor.  
_

_Vibeke lowers herself down with a smile and pats the dark brown fur beside her. Loki reclines on it, his eyes glittering up at her like the stars. Unprompted, Vibeke begins to describe the constellations visible from their magnificent peak. She has told him about them hundreds of times during their years together, yet he never objects to hearing the tales again and offering his own take. She loves that about him.  
_

_The longer she speaks, the thinner the bubble of warm air becomes. Vibeke pauses in her speech as she realises the chill, and Loki sits up instantly.  
_

_“Are you cold?”  
_

_She is, but she doesn’t want to lose the magic of the moment. “I am well.”  
_

_The air becomes instantly warmer.  
_

_“I’ve told you before,” Loki says, pulling a blanket out of the night and draping it over her. “Either stop lying, or become more accomplished of it. A poorly told lie is insulting.”  
_

_“You should be happy I’m a terrible liar,” Vibeke says, poking him in the side with her elbow before nestling into the cosy wool.  
_

_Loki shifts away from her, resting on the side she just jabbed, and looks at her with his signature amused condescension. She has learned not to take it personally.  
_

_“Lying is an art,” he says. “Would I be pleased at a painter who stabbed through his canvases with brushes?”  
_

_Vibeke’s laugh fades into the air. All those years spent rolling her eyes at poetry and pretty words, and somehow her great love has ended up as a man who speaks in little else.  
_

_“I meant that at least you know when I tell the truth. Although I would hope that you trust me enough to know that anyway.”  
_

_Loki looks up to the heavens again. “You don’t lie very often.”  
_

_“Little lies,” Vibeke says, shrugging as best she can in her cocoon. “They’re harmless.”  
_

_Loki shoots her a look. “There’s no such thing as a harmless lie.” The thought evidently pleases him. “Every word has a consequence.”  
_

_“Is that why you’re so careful with yours?”  
_

_The question surprises him. He gives her another look, longer this time and more appraising, before dipping his head in a nod. “Perhaps.” His eyes regain their spark. “Perhaps I just lose the ability to speak in the presence of your beauty.”  
_

_Vibeke laughs. “Now who’s the liar?”  
_

_Still, a blush warms her cheek. She doesn’t understand how he can still have this effect on her after a decade together. His smile suggests he’s not entirely unaffected either.  
_

_“Tell me about the stars on Asgard,” Vibeke murmurs after minutes in silence.  
_

_Rather than sighing and asking_ Again? _, Loki launches into a bardic cadence that simultaneously lulls Vibeke into relaxation and lights up her imagination.  
_

_His tale is sad, as his tales often are, and speaks of lovers separated by fate. Vibeke surmises that Asgard is home to the broken-hearted, for she rarely hears stories of a couple fate has permitted to stay together.  
_

_“He will never stop searching for her,” Loki finishes. “He uses the stars as guiding lights to find his way back to her side, where he belongs.”  
_

_His voice fades away but his words remain, burrowing deeper into Vibeke’s mind until she finds herself inexplicably touched.  
_

_“How sad,” she whispers.  
_

_Loki glances at her. “Do you think so? I find it hopeful, myself.”  
_

_“There is nothing hopeful about a lost cause.”  
_

_There must be a finality to her words because Loki does not reply to them. Uncertain as to whether she has caused offence – Vibeke’s thoughts often spill from her mouth without a filter – she shifts closer to him, moulding her body around his with such ease that it was as though their union had been designed by the universe itself.  
_

_(Vibeke will not assume it was an act of God. Despite her romantic entanglement with a deity, she still puts no stock in religion.)  
_

_Loki draws her closer with an arm around her shoulders. He presses his lips to the side of her forehead in gentle affection. Vibeke supposes that talk of a love which lasts for infinity – a scale of time which Loki possesses but she does not - must remind him that he will one day lose her to the mortal coil.  
_

_“I wish it could be like this forever,” she says, without thinking.  
_

_Loki’s expression shutters. He takes his arm away. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”  
_

_Vibeke frowns. “I’m asking for an eternity of you, and this.”  
_

_“Eternity can be a curse.” Then, with forced joviality, “As evidenced by how I am doomed to spend it with my family.”  
_

_Vibeke accepts this attempt to lighten the mood; whatever is bothering Loki, he is sure to bring it up again. “You speak highly of your mother. Surely it would not be a hardship_

_to spend lifetimes with her?”  
_

_“Certainly not. It is Thor I have my reservations about.”  
_

_Vibeke grins. How often she has heard of their fraternal strife, and soothed Loki through the worst of it. “I’ve yet to meet this brother of yours. Would I like him?”  
_

_A pause.  
_

_Then, “Yes, I believe you would.”_

  
*

  
 “Jane.”

 Nothing.

 “ _Jane_.”

 She does not wake.

 Thor tries not to panic. Jane loves her sleep (at least, between periods of intense research) so her late slumber should not be cause for alarm. And it hadn’t been – for the first two hours after Thor had woken. Now it is well past the time she usually sleeps until, and even nudges do not rouse her. Were it not for the steady rise and fall of her chest, Thor might fear the worst.

 “Jane, please.”

 He shakes her as hard as he dares. Her expression, smooth in sleep, does not flicker. Thor’s fear hardens into determination. There is something foul at play, and he will trace it to its dungeon-dwelling source.

 Thor scoops Jane up and charges away from his bedchamber, through the halls of the palace. He has enough sense to take the corridors most likely to be deserted but every other faculty is given over to his growing rage. If Loki seeks to hurt Thor, then Loki should hurt _Thor_. Jane should not be punished by association. Does his brother have no shred of honour left?

 The guards by the dungeon are quick to move out of his way. They have seen their prince on rampages before, and have no desire to be caught in his path. Only one remains to slide open the door to the dungeon, and it is this unfortunate man who bears the brunt of Thor’s short temper.

 “Bring in a lounging chair,” Thor snaps at him. “Large enough for her to lie on comfortably. Go!”

 The guard scurries away. Without drawing a breath for composure, Thor strides into the dungeon. He stops in front of the cell and raises his arms, lifting Jane’s form up in an accusation.

 “Enough of your magic, Loki, you finish this now!”

 Loki, already on his feet and close to the barrier, barely reacts. He stands tall in his cage and studies Jane in a detached manner. Thor realises that in his haste he had not thought to strip Jane of her sleepwear and clothe her in something more substantial. She is far from indecent, although her silk nightdress and bare legs suddenly seem like the most illicit things Thor has ever seen now that she is displayed before his brother. He holds Jane closer to his chest.

 Loki’s expression remains inscrutable. “Another person you’ve bored to the point of unconsciousness.” His eyes flick up. “Were you retelling the tale of the battle against the rock trolls? That one’s deathly dull the first time around.”

 Mjolnir, secured at Thor’s waist, thrums with anger at Loki’s utter lack of concern. Thor makes to step forward and then stops, reminding himself of the woman in his arms and the promises he has made to her. She is his anchor in the storms Loki hurls his way. If not for Jane’s welfare, Thor would break through the cell with his bare hands, magical barrier be damned.

 With his deadpan quips out of the way, Loki seems prepared to take the situation more seriously. He assesses Jane with the narrow-eyed expression Thor recognises as swift analysis, and then returns his attention to Thor.

 “How often do the memories overcome her?”

 Thor almost shrugs, but he will not allow a helpless gesture to betray his fear. “They are unpredictable.”

 Loki purses his lips. “And yet they never seem to occur in my presence.”

 There’s an insinuation there that Thor doesn’t understand but scowls at nonetheless. “It is _your_ magic within her.”

 “Which you are so desperate to relieve her of.” An echo of ironic humour darkens Loki’s eyes. “Tell me, since you are so eager to accuse: does my magic soothe or inflame? It cannot do both.”

 “Jane’s memories are becoming stronger,” Thor says, ignoring the question. “The last time one overtook her in her sleep, she woke herself from it. Now it has claimed her.”

 Loki spends another moment looking at Jane, before turning on his heel and walking back towards his neatly-made bed.

 “The memory will play itself out, I imagine, and your beloved will return to you.” Loki glances back. “Best not to ask her which of us she was dreaming of, though.”

 It’s a dismissal, one which Thor will not accept. “We’re not done here.”

 “No, I think we are.”

 “Loki –”

 The threat, or warning, or whatever would have followed his brother’s name is abruptly swallowed in the opening of the dungeon door. Thor grips Jane tighter and turns to see a guard rushing in. He barely pauses before launching into his breathless tale.

 “Forgive me, your Highness, but Heimdall has sent word from the Observatory of an incoming band of warriors.”

 It could be a scouting party. It could be something worse. Thor resigns himself to the latter; the Allfather has made it clear since both Loki and the Tesseract have returned to Asgard that any threat must be taken seriously.

 Thor’s eyes go instinctively to Loki. Once, seeking out his brother at news of impending battle was a ritual of shared reassurance. Now there is only room for suspicion.

 Loki raises a sardonic eyebrow. “Flattering though it is that you think me capable, even _my_ skills do not extend to plotting an invasion from inside a heavily guarded cell.”

 Thor wants to point out that this is more or less exactly what Loki did during his time on the Helicarrier, but he will not waste precious time arguing. The guard Thor sent away earlier has returned into the room, joined swiftly by another. Between them, the men balance a long lounging chair on their shoulders.

 “Put it down there,” Thor instructs, nodding to the empty space before Loki’s cell. Even with the chair lowered, he does not release his hold on Jane.

 The guards leave, ignoring Loki with practiced determination. For all his flaws – or perhaps because of them – Loki is a captivating presence.

 “Quite the predicament,” Loki muses, sounding no more concerned than he has throughout the meeting. “Asgard has the Tesseract _and_ the one who failed to procure it. Twin opportunities for power and retribution. The only real question is which one they will go after first.”

 Thor’s mouth twists into a snarl. “They will not get so far as to decide.”

 With a silent apology, he lowers Jane onto the lounger and removes his cloak. He drapes it over her sleeping form, wishing as he looks down upon her that he could do more to protect her. It would be wise to return Jane to his sleeping chambers, but she already rests in the safest place in Asgard. If the presence of Loki’s magic truly does soothe her, she will soon wake. Still, Thor will not leave her alone.

 He drags open the stone door into the antechamber between the dungeon and the rest of Asgard. The guards from earlier have left, no doubt called away to fight against the incoming warriors, but another man remains. He is young, appears inexperienced, and likely chosen to act as a guard to an impenetrable prison simply because it would be a waste of talent for any other Einherjar.

 Thor hesitates on his suitability for the role for a second, before assuring himself that more men will wait outside the dungeon’s antechamber. Jane will be well protected. Once she wakes and the danger is gone, she can remove herself from Loki’s presence.

 “Watch them,” Thor instructs the young guard. “Do not speak to Loki, and do not listen when he speaks to you. When the Lady Jane awakes, inform her of the situation. She may retire to this chamber if she must, but do not allow her to go any further until word has reached you that the warriors have been beaten back.”

 The young man nods, determined and proud with this hefty new burden. “Yes, Your Highness.”

 Thor sees the guard back into the dungeon, checks on Jane one final time, and then turns to Loki. Before Thor can say anything, his brother smiles.

 “Don’t fret,” Loki says. His tone is soothing, but there is nothing behind his eyes. “I’ll still be here when you return.”

 Later, when Thor flies out to meet the invading warriors, his pent-up anger caves in one skull after another until only a shouted plea to leave one warrior alive for interrogation stays his hand.

  
*

  
 Vibeke expects to wake up on a mountain in Norway, so she’s rather perplexed to instead find herself on a cushioned seat, lying warm beneath a cloak whose scent she recognises as if from a dream. Wasn’t Loki beside her as she fell asleep? Did he transport her away from the mountain, realising that she was probably cold? It _is_ something he would do, although –

 The shift in consciousness is imperceptible. Vibeke is banished to the back of Jane’s mind like the nightmare Jane is going to pretend she is, and it’s Jane and no one else who slowly drags herself out of her deep sleep.

 She stares around with a groggy sense of awareness until – oh, no. What the hell is she doing in Loki’s dungeon? And in her nightwear? Jane likes to assess situations before panicking, but there are far too many variables missing to reach a conclusion that doesn’t want to make her throw up through apprehension.

 Jane’s eyes settle on Loki, and she glares at him with all the venom her diminished state can muster. She will draw on her anger before succumbing to terror. Loki, safely behind an energy barrier, smiles brightly at her in return.

 (Jane knows that he doesn’t smile like that when he’s genuinely happy. Jane pretends her chest doesn’t constrict when she realises that in the whole time she’s been in Asgard, he hasn’t once smiled he way he used to. Jane doesn’t care about things like that.)

 “Good morning,” Loki says, still affecting a cheerfulness carefully pitched to reach the height of irritation. “Figure of speech,” he adds, pre-empting the question of how he knows the time.

 Jane pulls herself up into a sitting position, still clutching Thor’s cloak around her as though for protection.

 “Why am I here?” she demands. “Where’s Thor?”

 The annoyed twitch of Loki’s jaw is quickly covered by a benign smile. “An invasion,” he explains with a glance upwards. “They’re surprisingly common on Asgard. Sometimes our enemies grow complacent.”

 Jane’s eyes flick around the otherwise empty room and then narrow into a squint as she shakes her head. “There’s an invasion, and Thor locks me in here, _alone_ and _asleep_ , with you?” Even Loki, with all his gifts, can’t make that one fly. “No. What am I really doing here?”

 “What were you dreaming of?” Loki counters, leaning forward with his gaze intent on hers. “It must have been pleasant, for you refused to wake from it for quite some time.”

 He knows, the bastard. It’s in the quirk of his lips, the eyebrow raised in insinuation, the satisfied gleam in his eyes. Somehow, he knows.

  _He doesn’t_ , Jane’s logic argues. _It’s just your guilty conscience making you think that_.

 “Tell me why I’m here,” she bites out.

 For once, Loki complies. “Thor couldn’t rouse you from your dream, so he brought you down here to demand that I heal you.” He sounds bored by the explanation, as though he would have offered a more salacious one if he could. “Before I could, word reached us of an invasion. I was locked back in my cage, and you were left under my watchful eye.”

 Some part of it is a lie, although Jane can’t gauge which part. Loki misconstrues her silence.

 “I doubt it’s anything to be truly concerned with,” he says in what passes for reassurance. “Going around flaunting one’s strength is often a sign of inner weakness, wouldn’t you agree?”

 Jane is pretty sure that’s a dig at Thor, but the irony of it makes her scoff. “Says the guy who invaded a planet.”

 It takes a moment for her to realise what she’s said. She feels a residual comfort around Loki which allows her to be flippant, and it’s only ever after she has been too loose with her tongue that Jane remembers that such intimacies don’t belong in this lifetime. She is not in the realm of gentle teasing with Loki. They have never lain side by side underneath the stars, idly tracing out patterns and stories. They have never been in love.

 She just wishes her damn memories would quit trying to convince her otherwise.

 Loki, for his part, looks as though he would happily strike her for her insolence. Jane shifts herself into a more comfortable position on her lounger to try and hide her unease. She has been alone with Loki before, of course, but Thor has always just been a panicked shout away. Knowing that he’s not waiting behind that stone door unnerves her. She and Loki could be the only two people in the universe, as far as she’s aware.

 “Thor wouldn’t have left me here alone,” she mutters to herself.

 Loki takes her comment as an invitation to air his unwanted opinions and punish her for her slight. “Thor’s choices were to stay here and keep an eye on you, or run off and play the hero. Hardly a difficult decision for the God of Thunder.” He inclines his head. “Although credit where credit is due, he _did_ spend a second or two mulling it over. Before he met you, he would have been out the door before I could finish presenting him his options.”

 There is provocation in his eyes that reminds Jane that it’s entirely within Loki’s interests to turn her against Thor. It doesn’t matter; Thor choosing to protect Asgard over staying with Loki and Jane is nothing different than Jane can expect of him. He is a prince, one day a king, and the wellbeing of one does not take precedence over an entire realm.

 Jane pushes away the notions of true love’s all-conquering ability and settles herself firmly back among logic and reasoning.

 “Do you want me to blame him for fighting to protect his home?”

 Loki’s lips thin. “ _I_ would protect the one I love first and foremost.”

 He speaks with such conviction that a stranger could paint him as some kind of romantic hero. Jane, however, scoffs.

 “You don’t have any loyalties to Asgard,” she points out, “so it’s not like you’d be making some huge sacrifice.” She shakes her head, disgusted that he would try and shame Thor when all Thor has ever tried to do is what’s best for his people. “You don’t care. I doubt you’ve ever cared about anything.”

 The words don’t anger Loki, although Jane can see the impact they have as the bury further into his mind. The self-righteous judgement he wears flickers and then falls.

 “You’re wrong,” he says softly. “There was a time that I cared terribly, about everything. I could not sleep for caring.”

 His words stir a memory. Jane remembers him lying in bed beside her, restless in the early hours of the morning. Always worrying, always thinking about every angle to every problem that could possibly be thrown his way. She can picture the tight lines of his smile as he insists that he’s fine, can hear the thin thread of anger in his voice when she tells him talk to her and he replies that it’s none of her concern.

 “What happened?” Jane’s voice matches Loki’s in quietness. 

 “I was not cared for in return.”

 Something inside Jane protests that with a vehemence that propels her to scowl and say, “That isn’t true.”

 Loki gathers his sneering arrogance back around him like a poorly hemmed cloak through which Jane can still see his vulnerability. “What would you know of it? You flitted between us as a bird flits between shiny objects. Perhaps the next time around, I will polish my armour until it is worthy of your attention.”

 “Perhaps next time don’t kill a bunch of people and try to take over the world!”

  
*

  
 As the woman and the god bicker inside the dungeon, a fuzzy-headed young guard stands watch over a rosebush in the royal gardens. He isn’t sure why, but he knows that he has never been tasked with a more important mission than this. Prince Thor will understand why he left his post in the dungeon. And if he doesn’t, Prince Loki will explain it to him as well as he explained it the first time.

  
* 

  
[coming up: some answers, some questions, some small semblance of plot]


	17. Chapter 17

 Thor is barely through the dungeon door when Jane rushes him. Her small hands cling to him until he returns the embrace.  
  
 “You’re okay,” she breathes into his armoured chest.  
  
 Thor smiles at her relief and pretends not to notice how Loki has turned away. “Yes, Jane, all is well. I would have returned sooner but for the need to debrief.”  
  
 Jane shakes her head. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”  
  
 Thor would kiss her, except he knows that Loki would take it as a taunt or an act of cruelty. Half out of kindness for his brother and half out of deep suspicion of what Loki’s revenge would be, Thor steps out of Jane’s embrace and looks around the room.  
  
 “Where is the guard?”  
  
 Jane frowns. “Guard?”  
  
 “Yes.” Unease knots in Thor’s stomach. “I left someone to watch over you.”  
  
 Jane’s irritated expression confuses him, as does her muttered “I knew you didn’t leave me here alone.” When she sends a black look at Loki, Thor understands. Relief that Jane trusts him wars with anger that Loki would try to sway her faith.  
  
 “Of course not.” The words are tightly spoken in a tone not meant for her. Thor turns to Loki, his anger quick to rouse in the aftermath of battle. “What did you do with the guard?”  
  
 Loki quirks an eyebrow in a silent _are you speaking to me?_ before letting his expression relax into a vague smile. “He discovered a previously unknown interest in horticulture. He’s tending the rosebushes as we speak.”  
  
 Thor glances at the faint golden lines of the magical barrier. They still appear firmly in place, and yet Loki must have used some form of magic to trick the guard. Even his silvertongued brother could not confuse a man to such an extent using only speech.  
  
 “How did you use such magic from inside your cell?” Then, despite knowing Loki will not answer, “Has your power been restored?”  
  
 Loki releases a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, Thor, I possess the full range of my magic and yet decide to linger in Asgard’s dungeons. It’s a mixture of the furnishings and the company that thralls me so.”  
  
 Thor scowls. His brother can make him feel a fool like no one else in the Nine Realms. “Speak plainly, Loki! Did you tamper with the barrier?”  
  
 “No.”  
  
 “Then _what_ – ” (No, he mustn’t lose his temper in front of Jane) “ – did you do?”  
  
 Loki smiles again, genuinely amused. “By all means, Thor, adopt a gentle demeanour now. Did you have time to wash your hands of blood before you came here, or did you simply wipe them on your cloak?”  
  
 This, Thor will not be ashamed of. He draws himself up and glares at Loki. “I defended Asgard.”  
  
 “With a pacifist’s diplomacy, I’m sure.”  
  
 “They courted war.”  
  
 “Then perhaps you should have banished them to Midgard to teach them a lesson. After all, it worked out so well for _you_.”  
  
 “You’re changing the topic,” Jane says.  
  
 From the dark look Loki shoots her, Thor realises she is right. Before he can demand an answer, Loki changes his demeanour until there is no trace of his delight at the verbal rings he was running around Thor. When he speaks, it is with the bored and disassociated voice of one delivering an official report.  
  
 “The Tesseract showed me a great many things, alternative forms of magic included. I will not speak more on it, but know that as it will enable me to heal Miss Foster, I would not advise binding my powers further.”  
  
 Jane scoffs. “Yeah, I still need proof of the healing, by the way.”

 Loki blinks, innocent as a child. “Is my word not enough?”  
  
 “If I laugh instead of answering, does that still get the message across?”  
  
 Such a retort would end with a blow across the face if spoken by another. As it is, Loki just laughs. He must have noticed, as Thor has, that Jane is bolder now and does not need to hide behind bravado to speak up against him. The thought does not rest easily with Thor; while he would not wish fear of any kind upon Jane, he knows that it’s far safer for her to be wary of Loki. Trust may not be an option between them, but the Midgardian expression “give an inch, and he’ll take a mile” is more than apt in this case.  
  
 “We grow tired of your games, Loki,” Thor says. The exhilaration of battle is ebbing from him, and he grows tired in general. He anticipates a hot bath, with Jane joining him, and then a hearty feast. “There are means of ensuring your cooperation that I will be forced to visit upon you if you continue evading your promise.”  
  
 Loki’s smile vanishes. “If you so much as step inside this cell, I will leave Jane to rot.”  
  
 It’s a chilling promise, not least because of the emptiness in Loki’s voice as he delivers it. Thor is not one to surrender, although he will admit to strategic retreat when necessary. There is nothing more to be gained from this conversation, and he is confident that Jane agrees. She looks up at the hand he places on her shoulder and nods at his silent question.  
  
 “Whoever attacked will try again,” Loki calls after them as they turn to leave. “This is far from a sustainable scenario you have allowed to fester in the halls of Asgard.”  
  
 Thor ignores the jibe even as he privately agrees with it. He cannot hope to build a suitable defence when everything is in flux, and the last few months have taught him nothing if not the large number of situations in which his physical strength is worthless.

*

 Only once they are back in Thor’s chambers does Jane speak again.

 “I know I keep saying it, but I’m really glad you’re okay.”  
  
 Thor smiles. Even when victory is assured, it warms him to know that there are those who worry for him. He removes his armour piece by piece as Jane sits cross-legged in the centre of his bed.  
  
 “What attacked you?” she asks, watching him disrobe.  
  
 “They are called Skrulls.”  
  
 “They’re an enemy of yours?”  
  
 “They have always been too weak to be considered a true threat.” Thor frowns at the vambraces he sets down on a table. “That they should send a scouting party betrays either great foolishness or the suggestion of a new alliance.”  
  
 Loki courted the attention of the Nine Realms, and their scrutiny had become no less intense upon his failure. The universe knows where he is and, consequently, the location of the Tesseract. The presence of both are an open challenge to those strong enough to accept it.  
  
 As though reading his thoughts, Jane speaks up again. “Is it…I mean, the Tesseract is this huge beacon of power, right? Is that what they want?”  
  
 “I assume. One Skrull has been left alive for interrogation, so I suspect we’ll have an answer soon.” He is reluctant to burden Jane’s mind with talk of Asgard’s enemies when she wages a full-scale war in her own mind. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he sends her a smile barely on the proper side of insinuation. “But enough of these dark thoughts. I am unused to removing my armour without attendants. If you would be so kind…?”  
  
 The worry darkening Jane’s eyes lessens. With renewed energy, she bounds forward off the bed and into his arms.

*

 It takes two more instances of Jane falling into her memories’ grasp for Thor to finally relent and move the long lounging chair into the dungeon’s antechamber for Jane to sleep on. He rests on the floor beside her, uncomfortable in the too-small room but refusing to even entertain the notion of leaving Jane alone so close to Loki. The option of moving a bed into the free space in Loki’s dungeon is not spoken aloud, although Thor knows that Jane must have thought of it. She has considered every angle over and over, she tells him with a frustrated sigh as they lie awake one night, and sleeping next to Loki’s cell is the closest thing she has to a long-term solution.  
  
 “This can be our long-term solution,” Thor insists, gesturing around the antechamber.  
  
 Even as he speaks the words, he knows they are not viable. Rumours are springing up about his preoccupation with his mortal lover when Asgard lies under threat. The first scouting party of Skrulls were dispatched easily enough, although their number and allegiances remain unclear. The captured Skrull, whose chitterings are only decipherable through the Allspeak, refuses to reveal anything even under duress.  
  
 When Odin summons his eldest son – to the throne room, nonetheless – Thor knows it is not with good news. Whatever his Odin’s words are, he speaks them as King rather than Father.  
  
 “You asked to see me?”  
  
 The words echo, strong enough to hide their uncertainty, through the high arches of the hall.  
  
 “Yes.” Odin lifts his chin and fixes his son with his single eye. “The mortal’s time on Asgard is drawing to a close. You will send her back where she belongs.”  
  
 Thor has prepared for this. His level voice betrays none of his panic. “She is not some stray animal I found on the side of the road, Father. I have a responsibility to her –”  
  
 “The only debt you owed her was for her kindness during your banishment. You saved her world, therefore the debt is paid.”  
  
 So it is in Odin’s mind that battle and benevolence exist together solely as transactions. Thor steels himself. “Father –”  
  
 “Be grateful I do not subject her to the experiments Eir has been suggesting.”  
  
 Thor does not comment. It was Jane herself who offered to become a test subject (one of the few phrases Thor has taken away from Jane’s scientific mutterings) in exchange for staying on Asgard, although he is glad these plans never came into fruition.  
  
 “At least allow me enough time to convince Loki to heal her.”  
  
 Odin’s lips thin. “Whatever Loki has promised you, he sits back and laughs to know you trust him to fulfil it.”  
  
 Thor has sought the wrong audience for the request. He will repeat it to his mother, who will be more inclined to grant it. She, like Thor, does not believe Loki to be unreachable.  
  
 “I have not lost faith in him,” Thor says aloud.  
  
 “He is our enemy now.”  
  
 Thor shakes his head at the weary resignation in his father’s tone. “The Skrulls and their master are our enemies.”  
  
 “And how do we know the three are not connected? The only thing we can be certain about Loki’s allegiances are that they do not lie with Asgard.”  
  
 Odin stares at Thor, waiting for his defiant disagreement. Thor, knowing he currently possesses no proof to counter Odin’s claims, lowers his head in submission. He will not waste time arguing when Jane’s presence in Asgard is under threat.  
  
 “Jane Foster will be gone by tomorrow evening, Thor.”  
  
 Thor, careful not to voice anything that could be construed as an agreement, merely bows and takes his leave. His mind already plots.

* 

 Jane lies in the antechamber, restless and alone. Thor is attending a discussion on the potential threat of the Skrulls that has run long into the night, although Jane cannot be sure he has not since moved on to other things. They had shared a short, tense discussion about Odin’s wishes and the limited time Thor has to stall them. She wants to believe the vehement way he vows she will not leave Asgard unhealed, but she is pragmatic. If Odin tells her to leave, she will have to leave. The six-foot-fifty guards armed with spears will see to it, likely too many in number for even Thor to fight off.  
  
 She sighs and sits up on the lounging chair. Thor’s bed is far preferable, and yet her dreams don’t ensnare her here. She wishes there was a way to block them altogether, but night after night she dreams of Loki and snapshots from the many lives they shared together. Again, Jane is nothing if not logical; she can dismiss the feelings the dreams leave her with as the residual remains she knows them to be, but that doesn’t negate the fact that they’re still there, itching at her heart and conscience.  
  
 Her eyes slide sideways to the door leading to Loki’s dungeon. Thor has not expressly told her to stay away from Loki, and the closest guard stands in the corridor outside the antechamber. Jane could slip in to the dungeon, question Loki about the thoughts preventing her from sleeping, and then return to her lounging chair with a clear mind. It could work; despite the difficulties between them, Loki is easier to talk to without Thor around. Still infuriating, still intimidating, but at least willing to answer her questions. If Jane is lucky, he will feel benevolent about her sneaking by his cell and waking him up to talk about her feelings like they’re nine year old girls at a sleepover.  
  
 Jane is halfway through her rationalisations about why what she’s about to do is such an excellent decision when she stops. She’s a grown woman, and she doesn’t need to make excuses for her poor choices. She stands, oddly empowered, and yanks on the mechanism to slide open the door. Despite her complete lack of upper body strength, the door opens with ease.  
  
 “Trouble sleeping?”  
  
 The voice floats out to Jane before she’s taken more than two steps. She walks further into the room without answering, wishing there was still a place she could sit down. Loki notices her eyes flick about the room, and gestures towards the stone steps leading up to his cell. Taking the initiative, he lowers himself down to the floor without breaking eye contact and leans against the wall, the long line of his legs running closely parallel to the barrier. Jane sits on the highest step, her back almost touching his boots. She reminds herself not to lean back, or risk finding out exactly how powerful the magic keeping Loki trapped is.  
  
“Tell me what bothers you.”  
  
 The command is soft, yet still undeniably an order. Jane would berate him for his bossiness but she is not here to fight. She’s tired, and not just from a lack of sleep. The cyclical nature of their encounters is exhausting and she wants to break the mould by opting for non-antagonising truth.  
  
 “Odin wants me gone.”  
  
 Loki shrugs. “He hasn’t locked you in a cage yet, so you’re still a step ahead of me in his affections.”  
  
 Jane wonders if he hears the bitterness in his voice when he tries to be flippant about his father. She doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up. Not tonight, at least.  
  
 Loki glances sideways at her silence, and sighs at the worry he finds in her expression. “Thor won’t allow it.”  
  
 “Thor doesn’t have a choice.”  
  
 That earns her a low chuckle. “For all the mysteries of this universe, the one thing I know to be true is Thor’s loyalty to those he loves. For them, he will take a hopeless situation and carve options out of it.” Jane waits for him to reach the obvious conclusion about his brother’s love for him, but Loki remains frustratingly – perhaps obstinately – oblivious as he offers her a slight smile. “You have nothing to fear, Jane.”  
  
 That Loki is speaking to comfort her is almost as strange as her willingly seeking him out. Jane narrows her eyes at him, deciding to push her luck while the universe is so wildly out of balance.  
  
 “If I ask you something, will you try not to be an ass about it?”  
  
 The corner of Loki’s mouth twitches. “I’ll certainly consider it.”  
  
 “Why are all my memories of you and not Thor?”  
  
 Jane expects gloating. She expects taunts and cruelty and the sharp sense of regret that she ever voiced her question. Instead, she receives a thoughtful silence from Loki and the pursed lips of a scholar in thought. It suits him, this unassuming intelligence. Jane wonders if this is the first time he has thought about the question without the biased wish of what he wants the answer to be.  
  
 “Proximity to my magic, I would imagine,” he says slowly, “although there could be another reason why your memories are not returning chronologically. Regardless, once your complete memories of me have returned, your ones of him should soon follow.”  
  
 The bitterness is back. Jane wonders how he became this twisted ghost of himself that’s so different from the man in her memories. There must be more to the story than she has heard, although it isn’t a tale she particularly wants revealed. She’s already on the knife-edge of familiarity with him; learning of the tragedy which lies in his past could soften her towards him, and that is not something she welcomes. Jane silently reminds herself of his crimes, so that she can hate him for what he’s done rather than who he is.  
  
 “Have you had more dreams recently?” Loki asks.  
  
 Jane’s prolonged silence is her answer. She looks down at her fingernails – grown too long, she really ought to find some nail scissors – and picks at the sides of them.  
  
 “Versailles,” she says after a moment.  
  
 Hopes that Loki didn’t remember are dashed by his fond smile.  
  
 “Ah, yes. I enjoyed that lifetime. My time in Midgard was always more enjoyable when you were in proximity to royalty.”  
  
 _Yeah_ , Jane thinks, _Revolution-era France was a great time to be a royal._ In a bizarre train of thought, she finds herself glad that magic took her life before a guillotine could.  
  
 “The palace was among the more extravagant places Midgard had to offer,” Loki remembers. His face softens as he wades through pleasant memories. “It had an opulence about it that I had never encountered on your planet before. Although it was homely compared to Asgard’s splendour, of course.”  
  
 Jane lets the comment pass. For the first time, she believes it was meant as an idle observation rather than an insult.  
  
 “The gardens, though…” He rests his head further back against the wall until his eyes are level with the ceiling. A smile quirks his lips. “The gardens were magnificent.”  
  
 Jane nods, thinking of the pictures she has seen online and in magazines. “They’re still there. I’ve never been, but the palace and the gardens are tourist attractions.”  
  
 Loki’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Do the King and Queen no longer reside there?”  
  
 “Uh, no. No royals have lived there for a long time. There was this whole thing…” Jane waves a hand about as though it could explain the intricacies of the French Revolution. When Loki gestures for her to continue, clearly unimpressed with her attempts so far, Jane scrambles around for information gleaned from popular culture. “Okay, so it turns out that the money spent on making the palace so opulent should have been put towards other things. Like feeding the starving population.”  
  
 Loki raises his eyebrows, mildly surprised. “I never saw any evidence of hunger.”  
  
 “You never left the palace.”  
  
 “I had no need,” he says, unabashed. “Everything I wanted was within its walls.”  
  
 His smile becomes a little too pointed for Jane’s comfort. She looks away and continues with her history lesson. “Anyway, the peasants rose up and executed the King and Queen.”  
  
 It’s an abrupt, if accurate, description of the turn of events.  
  
 Loki scoffs and shakes his head. “Barbaric.”  
  
 Though Jane can’t disagree, it seems as though he’s condemning her whole race rather than the actions of a few. She rolls her eyes. “I suppose Asgard has never had one of its rulers overthrown?”  
  
 “Certainly not. There have been three Kings of Asgard in the last ten thousand years – four, if you count my temporary position during Odin’s sleep and Thor’s banishment – ” from the disdain in his tone, it’s clear he does not “ – and the idea of an uprising against any of them is absurd. Does that happen often, on Midgard?” he adds before Jane can scowl at his latest _Asgard is better than you_ comment.  
  
 If Jane thought on the question for more than a moment, she would realise that he’s baiting her into conversation. He may not be an expert on Earth, but he’s spent enough time there to understand the delicate and temporary state of those who rule it. But she isn’t thinking clearly, and takes his question at face value.  
  
 “Yeah. Remind me to lend you a book on the Roman Empire.”  
  
 She would be alarmed at the smile that breaks out onto his face (alarmed but not surprised; it was still _Loki_ ) if not for the chuckle and the rueful shake of his head which accompanies it.  
  
 “Do you remember the time we spent in Rome?” he asks. “The fashion was absurd, although you remained as beautiful as ever. I remember the trouble you had with a particular corset.”  
  
 His smile belongs to the man from Jane’s memories, not the half-mad god caged before her. It warms her to see him happy and laughing, even if the sound is faint from lack of use. It’s as though he’s forgotten how to laugh out of anything other than cruelty and must reacquaint himself with more joyful cadences.  
  
 Something dormant flickers back to life inside her chest. Jane quashes it. In another life, in many other lives, she would have let it flourish. Enough of its echoes remain for her to replicate and resurrect the feeling. She would be impressed by Loki’s skilful manipulations instead of afraid of them, for they would never involve her. His sharp tongue, used to delight and defend, would never lash out at her. His intelligence would not be a threat, his challenges would not make her doubt herself, his pain over his brother would be something to soothe rather than avoid.  
  
 In another life.  
  
 In this one, most of the obstacles between them are of his own making. Jane tilts her head towards him. Without anger or accusation, she asks, “Why won’t you heal me?”  
  
 Loki’s laughter steadily fades. The faint amusement remaining in his eyes is edged by sorrow and nothing else. In such a calculating man, this is as bare and honest as she has ever seen him. He smiles sadly and rests his head against the wall again, keeping his eyes on hers.  
  
 “Once I do, I’ll never see you again,” he says. Jane can’t tell whether he hates himself for feeling it or for admitting it. “I’m a selfish man, Jane, and I have suffered. I hold onto any happiness I can.”  
  
 “Even if it means that _I_ suffer?”  
  
 She’s uncomfortable playing this card, partly because she isn’t sure if it will work. Despite everything, Jane still does not trust his feelings for her.  
  
 Loki looks away. “I will heal you before that day comes.”  
  
 She doesn’t believe him.  
  
 In the end, his undefined deadline does not matter. The Skrulls attack again the next day, and this time they bring their army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t take Jane’s incredibly brief explanation of the French Revolution to heart. There was, of course, so much more to it. It’s a fascinating topic and I am so unbelievably far from an expert on it, so please read up on it if you ever have the time or inclination.
> 
> Historical info that no one asked for: Jane’s belief that monarchy in France ended during the French Revolution is a common misconception. In fact, there were more French Kings and Queens after Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette were executed (the majority of whom were the younger brothers of Louis XVI). The monarchy was thrown away with the introduction of the Second French Republic in 1848 and, despite the dissolution of the SFR in 1852, was never re-established. My research was hardly intensive, and so if any of this is wrong then please tell me. I have a macabre fascination with the French Revolution that I’ve never got round to indulging.
> 
> Further info that no one asked for: I was in London recently. Know how many times I got on the Tube and didn’t imagine Thor standing in the carriage a la The Dark World? Zero. Zero times.
> 
> Thank you for your feedback and your patience. We’re coming towards the end here, my friends. Hope you enjoyed!


	18. Chapter 18

 The call to arms comes in the form of a deafening blast from a horn which reaches out over all of Asgard. Jane, wondering whether to add another dollop of honey to her porridge when the horn blows, almost drops her spoon in shock.

 “The hell is that?” she asks, rising to her feet as the room around her fills with guards.

 “Trouble,” Thor mutters. He nods to his mother in reference to some unspoken plan and barks commands to the Einherjar, whose collective shout of obedience jars Jane’s nerves all the more. “Come, Jane.”

 Frigga moves forward. “Thor –”

 “Mother,” Thor interrupts, drawing on his limited patience to combat his growing sense of panic. “If they succeed, they will be inside the palace in less than an hour. I must take Jane to Loki and then return her to Midgard where I know she will be safe.”

 He turns to Jane, as though only just remembering that she probably ought to have a say in this too. Jane nods her compliance. She’s happy with whatever plan keeps her alive, even if it does mean leaving Asgard sooner than she had hoped. She turns to Frigga, fighting the urge to curtsey.

 “Thanks for having me,” she says, feeling like a child at a sleepover. Pleasantries seem so out of place with an army mobilising on their doorstep, but Jane will not let Frigga’s kindness go unacknowledged. “It’s been really great.”

 Frigga smiles and inclines her head. “I hope we meet again, Jane Foster.”

 And then Jane is gone, swept away by Thor into a hallway where guards and soldiers rush in the opposite direction. There is tension in their shoulders, but from what Jane can see of their faces they relish the battle to come.

  _Warrior culture,_ she reminds herself.

 “You’ve won my mother’s approval,” Thor says as they breeze down the corridor leading to the dungeon. “The Queen bows her head to very few.”

 “I like her a lot,” Jane says. She wonders what nice thing she can say about Odin and draws a blank. He was rocking the eye-patch, although she gets the sense that the compliment wouldn’t be received with grace.

 “You will see her again.” Though Thor doesn’t look at her, Jane can sense the determination blazing within him. “No matter what happens, Jane, I will protect you for as long as I am able. Even if that means sending you away.”

 Jane won’t think of it as goodbye. She’s only a Bifrost journey away, after all, and this time will be different from those months on end when she heard nothing at all from Thor and assumed he was gone forever. No, definitely not a goodbye. The rogue factor is Loki and whether he will heal her. The safe bet is no. Jane spends the rest of the swift walk trying to decide if she has anything of value she can offer in a trade, if it comes down to it. The safe bet is still no. She could have all the wealth in the world and he would still refuse her if he decided it was more fun to do so.

 As Thor ushers Jane inside, Loki glances towards the rumbling sounds of footsteps heard before the dungeon door closes.

 “Oh dear. Did Volstagg’s birthday celebration get out of hand again?”

 “There is another attack incoming,” Thor says, ignoring his brother’s flippancy. “It’s time for Jane to return to Midgard. Fully healed.”

 Loki’s eyes flicker to Jane. If he expects her to speak against the plan, he’s disappointed.  “I fail to see why you can’t just leave her here with me like you did the last time.”

 “The threat is greater now,” Thor says. “If the Skrull have truly organised under – what is it?”

 Loki is on his feet with a muttered curse. His frame is tight with agitation as he darts glances around his cage. For all that he has been imprisoned, it’s only now that he seems truly trapped. Jane and Thor exchange a confused look.

 “You fear the Skrull?” 

 “I fear their master,” Loki corrects. Despite his uneasiness, he still manages a haughty glare. “Without outside influence, the Skrull could barely walk in a straight line.”

 Were the situation less pressing, Jane would roll her eyes. As it is, she just asks, “Who’s their master?”

 “One whose acquaintance I have no interest in making again.”

 And that’s another eye-rolling urge suppressed. This isn’t the time for vague, cryptic statements.

 “Then I offer you a reprieve from your prison,” Thor says in the echoing voice of a leader. He fixes Loki with a stern expression. “A temporary one. Heal Jane and I will release you to fight for Asgard and drive the Skrull away. And afterwards, this cell.”

 A disbelieving silence greets the words. Jane stares at Thor, wondering if he had sustained a head injury while she was looking the other way. She can’t think of any other explanation for his offer.

 “Thor –”

 “This doesn’t concern you,” Loki interrupts, much to Jane’s outrage. She may be out of her depth and without power, but she has never accepted dismissal before.

 “Pretty sure it does!”

 Loki ignores her, instead watching Thor as though he, like Jane, can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You would trust me to fight _for_ you and then willingly return to imprisonment?”

 Thor’s jaw clenches. “I trust you to recognise the methods by which you will earn a pardon from the Allfather and eventual freedom.”

 “Assuming that I want the former and cannot achieve the latter by myself.”

 Despite Jane’s inward frustration at such petty displays of pride – which can be left for a time during which they aren’t under attack – she doesn’t speak out. She still thinks that Thor’s offer is a terrible plan with an infinite number of ways it could shoot him in the foot, but she can’t voice too much of an objection when the pay-off means she can return home completely healed. Asgard can handle Loki if ( _let’s be honest,_ when) he escapes.

 “I will arrange for your magic to be bound once you have healed Jane,” Thor says, continuing on as though Loki has agreed. “You will fight as the rest of Asgard does.”

 “Honourably?”

 Thor smiles without humour. “I could not ask that much of you, brother. You will fight without magic.”

 Loki accepts the insult without comment. He turns to Jane with eyes narrowed in calculation, clearly debating the deal. For the first time, Jane feels twinges of fear begin to creep in. Whoever is coming is enough to sway Loki from his favourite games of trickery and torment. Of all the dreadful things in the universe, Jane least wants to meet the thing that the God of Mischief is afraid of.

 Loki reaches a silent decision and turns his attention back to Thor.

 “Open the cage.” At Thor’s noise of protest, Loki sighs. “I need physical contact to remove my magic.”

 Jane’s heart begins to pound. She’s so close to freedom from her centuries-old prison, and yet she’s more afraid than relieved. Who’s to say that removing the thing which grants her quasi-immortality won’t instantly kill her?

 Thor moves over to the door and pauses in front of the wall beside it. He pushes the top of a stone block inwards so that it flips over, attached to some cyclical mechanism. A translucent screen lies embedded in the stone, only visible by the glinting reflection of the light in Loki’s cell. Jane watches in fascination as Thor heaves Mjolnir up and presses its side against the panel. After no more than five seconds, the barrier to Loki’s cell flickers and fades.

 “Take a step and I will lock you in again,” Thor warns as Loki makes to test the newly depowered cage. “Even without the barrier, there are wards on this room to prevent teleportation. You will not leave until you have healed Jane.”

 Jane, under no such restrictions, wanders over to Thor and peers at the technology. “Pretty impressive lock.”

 “Yes. It requires one of three things in order to open: my hammer, Frigga’s magic, or Odin’s staff. Things which cannot be stolen or replicated.”

 Jane gets the impression that the explanation is more of a pointed warning for Loki than anything else, but she appreciates it nonetheless. The tablet has no wires, of course, but nor does it seem to be attached to anything other than stone. Unless the stone has recharging properties, it’s possible that the tablet runs on wireless electricity. Asgard is advanced enough to have figured out how to utilise such a thing, even if they likely call it magic.

 “When you’re ready, Jane.”

 Jane looks up at Loki’s impatient interruption with a flash of annoyance. Her priorities seep back in slowly until, after a nod from Thor, she walks to the steps leading up to the cell. She keeps her head high and her eyes on Loki, refusing to show any of her building nerves. At the top of the steps she hesitates in the place where the barrier once was, until Loki gestures to the empty space in front of him.

 She moves towards him until she has to crane her neck to look into his eyes, as both her curiosity and defiance demand she must. Loki shifts closer until Jane can breathe in his sharp, clean smell. It triggers an instinctual rush of familiarity and affection ( _his arm around her in the cold Norwegian air, pulling her along into the waves of a tropical island, bringing her breakfast in bed and grumbling how he would never do this for anyone else_ ) which she almost, in her surprise, voices aloud. She presses her lips together to stop from speaking, instead letting her eyes travel over his face to take in the sight of skin which has lived through a thousand years and yet barely shows the wear of thirty. Thin laughter lines stretch from his eyes betray that he was joyful once, no matter how his current thoughts poison all memory of it. She won’t let her eyes drop to his lips, aware of how it would look, and so drifts her gaze over his cheekbones and defined jawline. They jut from his pale, clean-shaven skin in an aristocratic, almost fey way. She has always found him beautiful, but now she thinks it’s remarkable how all of these features tie together to so expertly hide the person beneath it.

 “Are you ready?” Loki asks. He’s quiet, as though he’s reluctant to break the spell of the moment. “I need to touch you in order for this to work.”

 Jane nods. Anything more might seem like the kind of enthusiastic consent it isn’t appropriate for her to give.

 Loki places one hand on her arm and hovers the other inches away from her cheek. Jane’s mouth goes dry. He brushes a strand of hair away from her face and lingers his thumb against her skin. His touch is gentler than she ever would have thought, and she has to stop herself from leaning into it.

 “This might hurt,” he tells her softly. “For that, I am sorry.”

 Jane takes a breath as Loki’s palm lowers over her cheek, and hopes that she has not misplaced her trust in him.

 Without further warning, Loki digs his fingertips into her temple. Jane closes her eyes and focuses on his chilled touch instead of her thudding heartbeat. For a moment, there is nothing. Then – a movement inside her. Tiny, at first. Innocuous. Her eyelids flutter as the movement grows, slithering inside her veins as though every single drop of blood in her body decided to flow upwards. She wants to claw at her arms to soothe the itch but knows she must not move.

 The magic heats up as waves of it crash and lap and rise up through her shoulders, her neck, her chin, her cheeks, her eyes. Pressure builds in her head with every escalation. Jane sucks in air through her teeth and tries to ignore the bright green light shining against her eyelids. She feels Loki’s palm grow hot as the magic seeps from her and back into its master.

 Jane’s legs buckle. Loki’s arm is at her waist, supporting her and urging her to lean forward until her cheek presses against his chest. The dizziness passes after a few moments, although a disorienting weakness still clouds her mind. Loki’s hand shifts to her back.

 “Thank you,” Jane murmurs.

 When she opens her eyes, she delays seeking out Thor. She feels guilty for the intimacy of her situation with Loki, which extends beyond their embrace to how safe she feels with his arms around her. She wants to dismiss it as yet another leftover emotion, and yet that wouldn’t be completely accurate.

 “Open the door.”

 Loki’s command, not directed at her, prompts Jane to look at Thor. He frowns, his confusion wiping away the vestiges of unhappiness in his expression.

 “What?”

 “There is one final step to take in healing Jane, and I will perform it once I am free of this dungeon.”

 Alarmed, Jane tries to move back but Loki’s hand does not budge. He wasn’t comforting her. He was trapping her.

 She grits her teeth. “Oh, you _asshole_.”

 “Loki, don’t be a fool.” In anyone else, the tightness in Thor’s tone would have sounded like panic. “We have an arrangement in place.”

 “And as ever, your version of generosity benefits me very little.”

 Jane tries to clear her mind of all fogginess and think of some way out of this. A swift upwards jerk of her knee could do the trick, although her brain is still trying to relay this information when Loki takes her shoulders and turns her roughly around until her back is flush against the hard line of him.

 “Look at her,” Loki says, presenting Jane as though she was a prized slab of meat. “Would you see her suffer?”

 Beneath the pain of his grasp, Jane’s anger at herself for trusting him, and the irrational hurt she feels that he would use her like this, there is a hot rush of outrage and humiliation that Jane has been forced into playing the damsel in distress role. She’s _better_ than this, damn it.

 With all the strength she can summon, she drives an elbow into Loki’s stomach and struggles against him. Despite his pained grunt, his grip on her tightens with a crushing immobilisation that does not let up until Jane stills.

 “I could demand the Tesseract,” Loki snaps at the still-silent Thor. “I could demand the throne! And you, lovesick fool that you are, would grant them to me. Be grateful that I settle for far less than my hostage is worth and ask only for my freedom.”

 “Loki, who is coming for you?” Thor asks. His step forward is cut short by Loki’s hand, raised in warning. “Whoever it is, I can help you fight them.”

 Loki laughs. It’s a dry and desperate sound that rushes across the top of Jane’s head. “No, you can’t. He will kill you as the latest faceless tribute to his mistress. He will kill _me_ as punishment. Would you care to venture which death will be quicker and less painful?”

 The warnings remind Jane that there is a bigger threat here, although it’s difficult to keep that in perspective when she’s caged in Loki’s arms. Thor watches her, his indecision hardening into resolve with every passing second. Jane tries to silently signal him that she’s (mostly) unharmed and (almost) unafraid.

 “But you _can_ help Jane,” Loki says, catching the shared look. His persuasiveness is more ragged than its usual silky tone. “Release us from this dungeon and meet us in the west gate gardens in ten minutes. By that time, Jane will be healed for you to collect and send back to Midgard.”

 Thor’s stony expression does not ease. “And what will become of you?”

 “I will leave Asgard.” The short answer warns against further questions. Jane can feel Loki’s growing agitation in the tension of his frame. “Will you let us leave, or will you abandon Jane to her torment?”

 “Don’t put the blame on him,” Jane spits, struggling against his bind in an attempt to turn around and glare. “This is _you_ and _your_ doing.”

 “I’m not above gagging you,” comes the genial reply. “Now, Thor, your decision?”

 In contrast to Loki’s affected calm, Thor is angrier than Jane has ever seen him. He grips Mjolnir until his knuckles turn white, and visibly shakes with the effort of restraining himself from launching an attack. Still, there is nothing he can do but open the dungeon door and step aside to let them pass.

 With his fingers clenched around her upper arm, Loki walks Jane forward. Jane suffers the indignity in reluctant silence and forms a plan to wait and see if he truly will heal her before attempting an escape.

 They’re almost out of the dungeon when Thor speaks out.

 “If you harm her, I will kill you.”

 The control he puts into the warning does not hide the fury within his words. Jane tenses as Loki throws his brother a dark look. The only thing she knows for certain about the brothers’ fractured relationship is that she wants to be far, far away when it eventually comes to blows.

 “No sooner than ten minutes,” is all Loki says before shoving Jane forwards through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feedback! I love hearing your thoughts and theories. There are roughly two chapters to go (or one chapter and an epilogue, I'm not sure yet) so get those literary seatbelts buckled.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and your feedback! Hope you enjoy the chapter.

 The second they step foot out of the dungeon, Loki teleports them outside into a garden enclosed by hedges. The shock of it sends Jane’s head reeling with a building pressure that peaks and then fades. Loki holds onto her just long enough to know that she will not collapse and then releases her arm. Jane stumbles away almost blindly, rolling her shoulders and wincing involuntarily as her muscles protest.

 “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Loki says, watching her as she takes stock of her new surroundings. “I meant only to restrain. I forget how fragile Midgardians are.”

 Jane doesn’t favour his apology with attention. She doesn’t believe a single part of it. She takes deep breaths of the softly fragrant air and ignores the shouts of rallying soldiers from the palace balustrades above them. It’s an odd little oasis of calm that Loki has brought them to, lined with neat flowerbeds and flowers poking from hedges which Jane cannot see over the top of. Everything blooms with the bright lushness that one would expect in the realm of gods. There’s a small fountain behind four interlocking archways, whose constant gurgle gives Jane something to focus on other than her wariness and fear.

 “Why the gardens?” she asks, moving over to touch the flowers blooming in the closest hedge.

 Loki begins his slow walk around the flowerbeds. Jane watches him from out of the corner of her eye.

 “They are my mother’s favourite place,” he says, and then pauses before a vine-covered archway. “And there is a flower here which will render you unconscious.”

 Jane accidentally yanks away a petal. “What?”

 “For an hour, at most.” It’s supposed to be reassuring. It isn’t. “Extracting magic was mostly painless. Extracting memories will be less so. It’s best that you are sedated.”

 Loki plucks a dark purple flower from the vine and then moves towards Jane as though this is a perfectly reasonable progression of events. He sighs as Jane scrambles away from him.

 “The magic was mine to begin with, and it was eager to return,” he explains. “Your mind and its contents have only ever been your own, albeit shared across a millennium. Despite the pain the memories cause you, they will be reluctant to leave.”

 Jane’s curiosity ( _Are memories sentient? Are all memories, or just magically induced ones? How sentient is magic itself?_ ) threatens to distract her. She shoves the thoughts aside, promising them an audience later, and frowns. “How do I know the flower won’t kill me?”

 “To what purpose? It would only spite myself.” At Jane’s loud scoff, Loki frowns. He looks almost hurt. “I have loved you for a thousand years, and I will love you for a thousand more. Think of me what you will, but never doubt that.” His quiet words have a basis of sincerity that Jane wishes she could trust. When Loki sees that she does not, impatience bites at his tone. “If I wanted you dead, I would leave you to your fate. I’m still here. At great personal detriment, I might add.”

 Jane can doubt his love, but not his self-preservation instinct. If he’s defying it to stay with her, it’s likely that he genuinely means to help. She eases and lets him approach her. Even when taking pains to appear nonthreatening, he is innately a predator and his every step is a warning.

 “Who is it that you’re so afraid of?” Jane asks, eyeing the petal he holds out to her.

 Loki’s lips thin. “There are things out there far worse than I.”

 “Yeah, and you seem to have made enemies out of a lot of them.”

 Faint humour flickers in his gaze. It softens his impatience and is replaced by a thoughtful look as he watches her for a long moment.

 “There is a being named Thanos who courts Death,” he says.

 Jane is distracted from the oddness of the statement by Loki’s slow and careful pronunciation of the being’s name. His features are impassive, but Jane understands that there is a dark tale behind Loki’s association with the one whose name he now hesitates to speak. She runs his words over in her mind and frowns.

 “He courts Death. You mean, he’s suicidal?”

 “No. He courts the entity Death, as one would court a lover.” Loki pauses and the corrects himself, “ _Almost_ as one would court a lover, for what need has Death for pretty baubles and promises? Death demands Life, and Thanos is eager to prove his love by delivering as many lives as he can to his beloved’s feet.”

 Despite the warm air, Jane represses a shudder. “That’s…insane.”

 “Yes. Hence his epithet of the Mad Titan. He has armies at his disposal, and ways of ensuring cooperation from the ones he tasks with leading them.”

 Ah.

 “Armies like the Chitauri?” Jane asks quietly.

 Loki nods, as though removed from the implications. “And the Skrull.”

 If he won’t acknowledge his connection to Thanos, Jane will. There isn’t time to dance around the topic, particularly not when she can later relay useful information to Thor to help him combat the threat. Still, something about Loki’s phrasing bothers her.

 “When you say ‘ensuring cooperation’…”

 “My actions were my own, Jane,” Loki says, understanding her meaning. His tone is firm but not unkind. “I would not condemn them had I been victorious, and I shall not condemn them in defeat.”

 Right. God forbid he would feel bad about trying to enslave an entire planet. Loki’s eyes are sharp on Jane as she breathes a soft sigh of disbelief.

 “You wish it were different?” he asks, challenging her.

 “Of course.”

 “Why?”

 There are so many potential answers that Jane almost laughs at the redundancy of asking in the first place. Regret wouldn’t restore the lives lost, or hasten the building site which still substituted for parts of New York. It wouldn’t change her past confusion at Thor’s insistent love for his brother. It wouldn’t change the knowledge that she could now fall in love with Loki easily if she let herself stop differentiating between who he was and who he is now.

 He watches her so intently from his superior height that Jane wonders if he can read each thought as it passes through her mind. The reason, when she gives it, is so weighted with disappointment that she’s surprised it doesn’t indent the path beneath their feet.

 “You’re better than the person you’ve chosen to become.”

 Loki opens his mouth in habitual defiance, but his shock at her words steals his breath until he’s left gaping at her. Jane holds his stare, uncomfortably aware of her own helplessness should he lose his temper.

 “We don’t have time to discuss morality,” he says after a moment, his voice scratchy with the strain of repressing the words he truly wants to say. “Close your eyes.”

 Jane does, hushing her instinctual distrust. As Loki moves closer to her, she doesn’t know whether to move towards him or away from him. Lifetimes of memories urge her forwards, while the memories of the last two years plead with her to run. Conflict keeps her rooted to the spot.

 Loki’s breath skitters across her cheek, pricking her arms up into gooseflesh. Jane wants to shiver, knowing what he will do, but acknowledging that it would be from desire rather than fear is a betrayal greater than she has yet committed.

 There is a pause, and the world is still. Then Loki presses light fingertips under Jane’s chin to tilt her head up. His lips are soft on her own in a kiss which demands nothing and expects nothing in return. Jane could sigh at the familiarity of it as her eyes drift shut and her mouth shifts against his. She can’t remember all of the first kisses they have shared over the centuries, but she knows that there have been none tinged with this much finality and regret.

 She can feel him shaking as he lowers his hand to brush against her palm. Jane’s fingers furl around the petal he places there as she opens her eyes and steps away. To linger would be to invite a future where there exists only a past.

 Jane’s heart slows to its usual steady thud as the world comes back into focus. Rather than look at Loki, she examines the soft petal as though its smooth purple surface looks different than any other flower.

 “Eat it,” Loki says, not looking at her. “There isn’t much time.”

 Jane replaces the heavy weight of regretful words on her tongue with the light touch of the petal. It doesn’t taste of anything in particular, even when she chews and swallows, yet it leaves a sharp sensation in her mouth. She’s about to ask if this is normal when drowsiness begins to pull her down in thick, intoxicating waves. Loki’s hand reaches out to steady her and ease her down into the grass.

 Jane might mutter a _thank you_ (or a _sorry_ , or an _I love you_ ; her mind is crowded with the women she once was, and they’re all jostling to be heard) before sleep claims her.

Whatever she says, Loki responds with a sad smile.  


*

  
 Loki looks at Jane curled into the grass, peaceful and sleeping, and wishes there could be another way. The Tesseract had granted him great and terrible knowledge, but it had not shown him how to break Jane’s curse. Loki hadn’t wanted it to; he was – _is_ – selfish to the core, and by the time he got his hands on the Tesseract he had already known of Jane’s love for Thor. He had no intention of breaking his last remaining tie to her, despite of the pain it would cause, and so the Tesseract had shown him something else.

 He had seen Jane happy.

 He had seen her thrive in a world without him or Thor. A world where, unbothered by Asgardians and their complicated binds, she could explore her theories to new, unparalleled heights until they led to her rightful renown and celebration. She fell in love with a mortal whose returning love was not spiked with jealousy or secrets or time constraints, and then she fell in love with the tiny and brilliant children they created who grew up to bear tiny and brilliant children of their own. She gave her youth to time, rather than time snatching it away, and lived until she was wrinkled and grey. It was the life she had always been forbidden, lived with a joy she had never known.

 It had taken Loki a shamefully long time to realise that the vision was not meant to punish him, but to show him the means to achieve his beloved’s happiness. That the vision was conditional upon his complete erasure from Jane’s mind stung so much that Loki had shoved it aside and refused to think of it. Only when Jane came back into his life did the idea begin to tentatively surface again, and only recently has it solidified into resolve. After causing her so much misery, Loki can finally give her a full and happy life. Even if it’s one without him.

 He pulls an emerald the size of a child’s fist out of his pocket dimension and rests it in the grass beside Jane’s head. It’s beautiful as it glints in the sunlight but like many beautiful things, it’s a trap. For all his pretence at selflessness, Loki cannot banish Jane’s memories of him forever. He will store them, ostensibly as little more than a keepsake of happier times, and not allow himself to consider a day where he will restore them to their owner.

 (A contingency plan to reverse his act of yet-to-be-performed altruism almost certainly negates said altruism, but Loki’s heart is too hard to bleed the way Thor’s does. If he did not have the possibility of returning Jane’s memories to her, he would not be strong enough to take them in the first place, regardless of his insistence of her happiness.)

 Time ticks closer to the end of his allotted ten minutes of privacy. Loki scans Jane’s face, memorising as much of her features as he can – and lingering on the lips that had, unexpectedly and fantastically, kissed him back – before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.

 He places one hand on Jane’s temple and the other on the emerald and opens himself up to the magic inside of him. He allows himself to become a conduit as his power builds and bends to his whim until its light seeps into Jane’s head.

 The images flare so quickly that Loki almost jumps. There’s a pang in his chest as he recognises Åsa’s village, and then there sparks the familiar regret that if he had only left well enough alone then she would not have suffered so throughout the centuries. Finally, he can make it right. His magic whips and coils around the parade of memories, and then yanks them away. They travel through Loki, who experiences them with excruciating clarity, and then come to rest within the emerald.

 Lifetimes whir around him as he remains fixed in place, dimly aware of the jewel growing warmer beneath his hand as the memories are suckered into it. Remnants of his own happiness distract him from the physical world.

 How could he ever have doubted how much this woman loved him? He feels its constancy through quickly changing scenery; she loves him as they lie on the banks of a rainforest’s river, and she loves him as she draws her bedroom curtains against the dense and smoky city outside. She loves him when she’s a peasant, and when she’s a princess.

 (She loves Thor, too, sometimes. Loki ignores this.)

 As centuries blur and fade, Loki sees himself through the eyes of one who loves him, and wonders briefly how he could nurse such self-loathing. But this sense of worth does not belong to him, and he discards it along with the memories.

 He stops banishing when he reaches Jane’s current lifetime. Here the process becomes slower, for Loki only wishes to remove Jane’s memories past a certain point. He sees everything thanks to this more careful pace, including the memories locked so deep that Jane would not have access to them. Life as an infant, helpless but very much loved. The model of the solar system hanging above her crib. The first taste of the names of the stars on her tongue. Her first best friend, Amy Trent. The first boy she kissed. Her father’s death and the raw wound of grief that still bleeds occasionally. The first man who broke her heart. Hunched over desks at all hours of the day, working hard for all the top grade papers she receives. Her devastation at a less-than-stellar mark. Joy at gaining acceptance into the college of her choice. Frustration at the professors shaking their heads and closing their doors on her. Gratitude at Erik Selvig’s faith in her and the overwhelming determination not to disappoint him. A meld of disapproval and affection for Darcy Lewis.

 All this, Loki sees and feels. He pauses at the moment Jane first meets Thor. He can feel her fascination, her twinge of attraction when he opens his eyes, her confusion and excitement growing at the mystery in front of her. Loki plucks away these memories with only a hint of the vindictive pleasure he thought he would feel, and removes everything that came after it without bothering to look.

 The timing is imprecise, but it’s likely that Jane’s memories will end a week or so before she met Thor. She will never know of Asgard or the gods who love her beyond snatches of remembered mythology. As Loki brings himself back to the physical world, he becomes aware of the tears drying on his cheeks. At his side, the emerald glows with the bright green of his magic before calming into its natural shade. Loki stares at it, knowing that he ought to destroy it but knowing with equal certainty that he will not. He tucks it away in his pocket dimension and rises to his feet.

 Yet another of his life’s constants has gone. He is weary from magical exertion and wearier still for the knowledge that he will have to run to the ends of the universe before he can feel safe again. He may not be imprisoned in Asgard’s dungeons any longer, but as long as Thanos still hunts him he has merely widened the parameters of his cage.

 It’s less than a minute later that Thor strides into the garden, dressed for war and ready to draw blood. Whether it’s the Skrull or Loki he is preparing to fight, Loki does not know. He straightens up and slips into the sneering persona that alternately protects him and makes him more of a target.

 Thor’s eyes fall to Jane, and even the steady rise and fall of her chest does not prevent the panic which seizes his features.

 “Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to say goodbye? She’s fine,” Loki adds as Thor prepares to strike him. “Unconscious for a little while longer, as was necessary to remove her memories, but fine.”

 Thor lowers his hammer but does not relax his fighting stance. He spares Jane a quick glance. “She is healed?”

 “She’s more than that,” Loki says. He aims for a benevolent smile but succeeds only in grimacing. “She’s free.”

 Thor eyes him warily. This is perhaps the only time Loki has not enjoyed knowing something which his once-brother does not. Taking Thor’s love away from him means nothing when the loss affects Loki too.

 “I have no time for your riddles.”

 “No, you never did.” Loki pauses, more for dramatic effect than anything. “You wanted me to remove the detrimental memories, but a mind is not a linear construct. Do you think that even if I had the time, I would go through each memory one by one and remove the irrelevant ones when it is so much easier to take everything in one fell swoop?”

 His glare dares Thor to challenge him, but of course he does not. Taking things at face value has always been one of Thor’s downfalls. Loki had once exploited that failing for all it was worth, but now it drains him. He stands back and waits for comprehension to settle, and stops himself from mocking applause when Thor finally stares at him in horror.

 “She will remember nothing?”

 Loki steels himself. “Nothing of us.”

 He watches Thor drop down to cradle Jane’s sleeping form and hates him for his weakness. By rights, Loki should be the one brought low by loss. Loki has loved her longer, loved her _better_ , and yet he has not fallen to sentiment. He’s about to spit out this venomous thought when Thor looks up at him with an expression tightened by anger and grief.

 “This is cruel, Loki, even for the man you have become.”

 “Cruel?” Anger shoots through him with electric potency. The most selfless thing he has ever done, and Thor dismisses it as easily as he dismissed Loki’s accomplishments in their youth. “ _Cruel?_ I once loved her too much to let her go, and she suffered greatly for it. It wasn’t a mistake I was going to make again, nor a mistake I would allow you to make.” He steadies his breathing with effort. “I have freed her from her pain. From us.”

 Thor shakes his head as he lifts Jane into his arms and rises. “You should have let me say goodbye.”

 Loki scoffs. Oh, but to live in a world where Thor might have his grand romantic gestures. Doubtless there would be choirs of birds and inexplicably large amounts of flowers. Loki, meanwhile, would be darting around in the background, ensuring none of them died. Just like in his youth.

 He suppresses the rising bitterness to speak in a flat tone. “If I had told you beforehand, you would have insisted on finding another way where none exists. We would all be dead by the Skrull’s hands because you were too hesitant to do what needed to be done.”

 At the mention of the Skrull, Thor glances overhead to ensure that the skies are still clear.

 “Take Jane to the Bifrost,” Loki says, pouncing on Thor’s distraction to pave the way for his own escape. “Send her home, briefly explain the circumstances to Selvig or whoever is there.” He keeps his eyes trained on Thor, determined to treat Jane and her circumstances with as much clinical distance as he can manage. “She will remember nothing of her past lives. Her last memory will take place shortly before she first met you.”

 “Loki, that’s _months_ –”

 “She will be happier without us.”

 Beneath the sharp tone is a plea for agreement. Loki has finally made things right with the woman he wronged centuries ago, at great personal cost. He refuses to consider that the sacrifice might have been made in vain.

 A strange kind of pity tinges Thor’s anger. “That was not your decision to make.”

 “Left to you, we would have –”

 “It was not my decision to make, either,” Thor interrupts. He speaks with the voice of a king, and Loki is left to reluctantly acknowledge the ways Thor has matured in the last few months. “You have removed the curse on Jane the same way you placed it: without consideration or consent.”

  _That isn’t true_. Jane _asked_ Loki to heal her, and whatever liberties he took, he took with her happiness in mind. To suggest otherwise has Loki’s defences rising, and his anger with it. Were it not for the limp form in Thor’s arms, Loki would launch an attack against his hated former brother until blood painted the beautiful gardens.

 As it is, his time is running out. Loki must leave now if he hopes to avoid Thanos or his underlings. He makes a silent promise of pain for his and Thor’s next meeting and slowly unclenches his fists.

 “I will be gone by the time you return,” he says through gritted teeth. “Bid Frigga farewell, and ensure that Jane is safe.”

 A stiff nod is all he receives in return. All of Loki’s expectations that Thor will prevent him from leaving despite the deal they struck seem unfounded. Loki takes a moment to be grateful for his non-brother’s absurd notions of honour, even in such circumstances. He wonders if Thor would be so generous if he knew who was coming.

 The thought tightens a knot in Loki’s stomach as his mind is assailed by images of Thor lying dead at the Mad Titan’s feet. Whether it’s the thought of Thor’s death or Thor’s death at the hands of someone else that unsettles Loki more, he does not know. The last of his anger seeps out of him. When Thor dies, it will be at Loki’s hand. If Asgard falls, it will not be at Thanos’ whim. Faithless though Loki is, these things he will swear upon.

 “Focus your attentions on Asgard,” he says, softer now. “Thanos is coming.”

 Before Thor can voice his confusion, Loki takes one last look at Jane and then transports himself from Asgard.


	20. Epilogue

Thing I should have mentioned twenty-odd chapters ago: inspiration for this fic, and its title, is from the song [“Beauty of the Beast” by Nightwish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJEJ6kcyss4). It’s kind of a commitment to listen to at ten minutes long, but it’s absolutely gorgeous and I recommend it. Enjoy!  


* * *

 

 Why Jane wakes up one sunny afternoon in London with the last two years of her life missing, she doesn’t know. Darcy doesn’t know. Erik doesn’t know. The doctors at Charing Cross Hospital don’t know, and neither do any of the specialists she visits back in New York. Aside from randomly deleting large blocks of memory, her brain is functioning perfectly.

 She wants to obsess over it. She wants to learn exactly what had caused this amnesia and how to reverse it. She fully intends to – until Darcy shows her the leaps and bounds she has made on her work on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge. After that, Jane pores over the breakthroughs she doesn’t remember making and feels the joy of discovery anew. It almost feels like cheating, to have the answers before her without having done any of the work. Or at least, without remembering doing any of the work. Her determination to fix her broken mind slips down her list of priorities as the outline of the Foster Theory gains a sharper perspective.

 Darcy refuses to leave her side. She watches Jane carefully when she thinks Jane isn’t paying attention, only to act innocent when her boss calls her out on it. It’s both sweet and irritating, particularly as Jane doesn’t remember entering into the sisterly dynamic she finds herself in. Still, Darcy is invaluable in catching Jane up to speed in the events of the last two years. Not that it takes long. Her personal life has been dull: no boyfriends, no Nobels, no social life.

 No surprise.

*

 It’s difficult to build new memories when there are such large gaps in the foundations of the old ones, but Jane makes a new life for herself. Eighteen months on from that sunny afternoon, she works in the Stark Industries research department after being wooed by Tony Stark himself, and enjoys the kind of funding and free rein that she could only have dreamed about back in her grad days. Darcy has been promoted from barely-qualified intern to barely-qualified assistant, and excels at her most important job of keeping Jane alive, fed, caffeinated and at least somewhat sane. In any other company, Darcy would be an unnecessary expense. In Tony Stark’s world, she wouldn’t even crack the top thousand on the list of money wasters.

 Jane takes Tony and the circus of his life in her stride. From their first meeting (in which he had asked her to confirm that she was Jane Foster, and then shrugged and said he “understood the fuss”) Jane knew that he would either be the best boss she’d ever had, or the worst. The fact that he’s an Avenger doesn’t faze her, although she’d had a blushing moment of schoolgirl awkwardness the first time she’d met Captain America. She hasn’t crossed paths with the rest of the team.

 The one Avenger she would be interested in meeting is Thor, if only to discover the truth about the rumours that he comes from another planet. She’ll meet him one day, her determination ensures it, but up until now Tony has told her he’s always been busy whenever Jane is free. Jane can’t fault him on it; saving the world (world _s_ , if there’s truth to the tales) takes precedence in these situations.

 Waking up to a world where alien invasions were a thing and superheroes were the commonly understood combative method had been surreal. Jane adapted quickly to the new knowledge, but even repeated viewings of the cell phone recordings of the Battle of New York couldn’t make the situation seem real. It didn’t help that the main players were little more than blurry outlines on top of skyscrapers. A flash of gold and green and _horns_ , bizarrely, were all she could make of the villain of the piece. The speculation that Loki, like Thor, was an alien pushed Jane into working harder on the fragments of a theory she had been putting together over the last two years.

 Being published had been her first step. Being celebrated had been her second. Now, as she sits in the corner of her favourite café in New York and pores over the scientific journals spread in front of her, she’s determined to prove a precedent for the successful application of an Einstein-Rosen Bridge. She’s going to have to pay late fees to the library (to the tune of a couple hundred dollars, by this point) but any guilt she might feel is drowned in the knowledge that no one else could utilise what’s in these journals better than she can. Still, she might send Darcy rather than take them back herself. Glowering librarians are not on her list of must-see people. People in general aren’t on her list of must-see people. She’s only ventured out from her apartment because Darcy broke her coffee machine and then ran away before Jane could yell at her.

 “May I join you?”

 The voice, smooth and cultured, breaks through her concentration. Jane drags her attention up to the man standing beside her table and doesn’t bother to hide her annoyance. It wavers when met with a smile, and blips out of existence when she sees the rest of him. He’s handsome enough to draw admiring glances but it’s his stance that sets him apart in the crowded coffee shop. He’s tall and well-dressed, and exudes the easy confidence which assumes his request will be granted. He’s pale – odd, given the glorious weather New York has been enjoying – and this curious skin tone is accented further by the pitch black hair that brushes his shoulders. There’s something otherworldly about him, Jane thinks, before admonishing herself. Not otherworldly, just different. His smile widens when Jane’s eyes meet his.

 He’s waiting for the permission he already thinks he has obtained, but Jane’s determination to work is an insurmountable thing that no amount of attractive men could dissuade for long.

 Is what she tells herself.

 What comes out of her mouth is an undignified, “Uh…”

 Where would he sit? The chair opposite her is stacked with books and there’s no room on the table for him to put his drink down. She would move some of them over so that he could – alright, no she wouldn’t. She can’t even complete the thought of hypothetical politeness. This is why it’s best for her to research in the comfort of her own living room.

 Jane leaves her non-committal noise hanging and hopes that the stranger will understand and accept her implicit refusal, but he must be as blind to conventions of politeness as she is. He only smiles as she looks around and fumbles for an excuse. There aren’t any other available tables, although there are plenty of tables without books scattered over them. Jane wants to tell the man to try one of those instead, but his patience is disarming.

 “Sure,” she ends up saying with a heavy note of resignation. “Move these, if you want.”

 She was due for a break, anyway. Probably. Time gets away from her when she’s working, even in loud public places like this.

 The man smiles in thanks and begins to stack the books to clear some space. His eyes flit over the titles and linger on the one journal Jane would rather he had ignored.

 “ _Einstein-Rosen Bridges and the Foster Theory_ ,” he reads aloud. He looks up at her, interest gleaming in his eyes. “You’ve read this?”

 “I wrote it.” At his arched eyebrow, Jane flushes and feels the need to explain away her apparent narcissism. “I’m working on something related to it, and it’s easier to bring the whole thing with me than the loose pages of notes when I need to reference something. Also, some of the original notes were written on walls that no longer exist, so…”

 She forces herself to trail off into silence. Darcy has it ingrained into her that just because someone asks about her work does not mean they want to know its entire backstory. Also, social graces aren’t her strong point.

 The stranger huffs out his amusement and carefully piles the rest of the books and journals on the floor beside his feet.

 “Do you make a habit of writing on walls?” he asks when he straightens up and takes a seat.

 “If there’s no paper. Or if there’s no paper in reach. Or if I need to get the ideas down as I’m thinking of them.” Jane pauses. “I make a habit of writing on walls, yeah.”

 The man laughs at her sheepishness. Jane finds herself smiling in return.

 “So, uh, have you read it?”

 “Many times.”

 Jane frowns. Her theory has been called revolutionary, but it’s also been distilled (dumbed down, she would say if she was feeling catty) into more palatable chunks for the general public to understand it in relation to Thor and the invader Loki’s supposed backgrounds. For someone to seek out the original text more than once is as flattering as it is unlikely.

 “Why?” she asks. “I mean, I’m proud of it, but it’s not exactly light bedtime reading.”

 “I felt a connection to it.” The man toys with an ornate silver ring on his left hand, inlaid with an emerald which looks as though it could pay Jane’s rent for a year. “Before you published your theories, wormholes seemed the domain of science fiction. I like seeing impossible things brought into fruition.”

 He liked the impossible? Jane should tell him about losing months of her life to amnesia and waking to pages of data she didn’t remember collating. He’d love her.

 “Tell me,” he continues, leaning forward with a smile playing about his lips, “what other secrets of the universe are out there? Time travel, perhaps, or past lives?”

 Despite his smile, he watches her closely for a reaction. Jane is almost disappointed to let him know that those things remain firmly in the sub-genres of science fiction separate from precursors of science fact.

 He scoffs. “Come now, you don’t think they’re even remotely possible?”

 Jane can’t be sure, but it feels as though he’s teasing her. The playful spark in his eyes and his easy smile stops his question from sounding too condescending, yet Jane still feels herself stiffen. It’s a defence mechanism left over from years of her theories being questioned – although admittedly she’s unused to being told that she needs to open her mind _more_.

 It’s the memory of door after door being slammed in her face, sometimes literally, that stops Jane from tearing down the man’s ideas. If he wants to go out and prove that time travel or past lives or, hell, why not, _vampires_ exist, then more power to him.

 “We live in a weird world,” she tells him with a light shrug. “Our main protectors are a billionaire in a flying metal suit, a green monster, a World War Two vet, and an alien with a glorified DIY tool. I guess anything’s possible.”

 Given the way his lips press together, the man is not as enamoured with the Avengers as the rest of the world. Jane, not ready to lapse back into silence, falls back on her failsafe topic of science.

 “I can recommend some other titles, if you’re interested in Einstein-Rosen Bridges. I kind of have them memorised by this point.”

 The man shakes his head. “I’m only interested in your work.”

 He produces a business card and hands it over. Jane takes it with no small amount of confusion; she hadn’t seen him reach into any pockets. She hadn’t even realised his suit _had_ pockets. It’s a sign of a good tailor, she guesses.

 “I wonder if you will agree to meet with me and discuss your work further?” the man – Luke Silver, according to his business card – asks.

 Jane scans the card. It has his name and number and nothing else. This is beginning to seem less and less like a random meeting, and she feels annoyance swell that she was interrupted in her research for nothing.

 “I’m happy at Stark Industries,” she says, placing the card on the table and sliding it back to him.

 Luke blinks. “I’m sorry?”

 “Ms. Potts warned me that other companies might try and poach me, but I really have no intention of leaving.”

 Luke looks down at his returned card with bemusement. “Thrilled as I am that you’ve found meaningful employment, Miss Foster, “poaching” you really wasn’t my intention.”

 Jane resolution falters. “Then what –?”

 Luke raises an eyebrow. She can almost read the _what do you think?_ question in it.

 Ah.

 Poor social graces indeed.

 “You mean like a date?”

 Luke inclines his head. He’s trying not to laugh, and the effort marks his lips with a smirk. It isn’t entirely unappealing. Nor is the thought of spending more time with him. If nothing else, it’ll give Darcy a break from being Jane’s science sounding board.

 She draws the card back to her with a nod and a small, uncertain smile. “Okay.”

 Luke’s smirk softens. His smile transforms his angular features into something less harsh, although the change is temporary. Satisfied with Jane’s agreement, he stands up and returns the stacks of books to their original places on the table.

 “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” he says, giving her book a little pat as he sets it back in front of her. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

 Jane glances at the clock on the wall. Sure enough, the lunch hour has been over for ten minutes. He’ll risk trouble at wherever it is he works if he doesn’t hurry.

 “But we’ll meet again, Jane Foster,” he promises. He sends her one last smile, but doesn’t turn away quickly enough for Jane to miss the shadow that passes over his face. “We always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And thank you for your comments, kudos and bookmarks. You are wonderful people and I hope you've enjoyed.


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